Transylvania, Before Gensokyo
Remilia did not baulk from killing, not when it was necessary.
On many occasions, she had met their antagonists head on. The ferals that stalked the land, the fearful humans that sought to purge her kind, rival vampires that fought for or against the Impaler.
All of them had ignored her warnings. All of them had endangered her sister's wellbeing.
The human's sobbing wails brought Remilia back into the moment, into the darkling chapel of Bran Castle, before a pallid congregation of undead boyars and their deathless women. Before them all, the Impaler's successor indulged in his pantomime as he held the dagger and chalice over the altar and the struggling man who lay bound upon it.
"The blood of Christ," Mihnea whispered, his words made apical and rushed by his rows of needle teeth. He was bald, and his eyes were hidden somewhere in the shadowy caverns of his skull.
The boyars and the ladies repeated the words in hushed, excited tones as the human's wailing took on a fresh animal frenzy.
The human looked straight at Remilia, pleading, weeping.
Remilia Scarlet had survived the nightmare fields of Transylvania. She had lived through her transformation and guided her sister. She had fought the armies of Wallachia, the Ottomans, the undead and the crusades from all sides.
And only then, when she saw the hopeless panic in the man's eyes and the way his tormentor—her liege—doted on his captive, did she feel the first stirrings of despair.
Mihnea cel Rau's dagger plunged down into the man's gullet, causing his eyes to widen. The body convulsed. the scream turned into a blood gurgling gasp.
And then the human was still.
Noises of distaste and audible gasps caught Remilia's attention. For a moment, she thought she had allies here who shared her dismay.
"The blood…" one undead boyar murmured, and that hope was dashed.
They objected to the spilling and not much else. Her eyes returned to the body, seeing the enthralling trickle of blood stain the altar's white cloth. For a moment, she was lost to it.
Mihnea's chuckle broke the spell. Remilia's red eyes met Mihnea's empty, pitiless sockets. He was smiling down at her.
Remilia stared him down, despite the allure of the blood. Until his gaze lifted to encompass the rest of their peers.
With a bow of his head, the rest of the room rose to its feet, and flocked hurriedly to the body at his feet. Like crows, they crowded it, their fanged mouths snapping down, claws tearing.
"The body of Christ," Mihnea rasped, as though remembering an old axiom, one that had once meant something.
Remilia turned her back on the assembly and left the chapel before the rending began.
In the great hall, the reason for her summons was made clearer.
"You are looking well, Miss Scarlet," Ruxandra uttered as she rested on her stone seat. She was lucky in that she was free of a familial resemblance to Mihnea, neither sharing her father's baldness nor his speech impediment. Her cheekbones were prominent, her jawline was strong, her features fair. Her eyes sparkled and her hair was black and silky.
Remilia smiled carefully as she regarded the woman who now languished on the throne.
"As do you, Lady Ruxandra," Remilia said evenly.
"I believe it's because our peers glut themselves," Ruxandra decided aloud. "Such habitual feeding lends itself to the monstrous aspect. You and I are more restrained."
Remilia frowned thoughtfully at that. "Perhaps."
"Well, there are a few theories. Others think there's good blood, bad blood, and others believe it is a matter of sin that determines our appearance.
"But I can tell this does not stimulate you, Miss Scarlet!" Ruxandra raised her voice at last.
"I apologise. I am in something of a hurry," Remilia managed, forcing a tired smile.
"To get back to your sister?" Ruxandra asked, her eyes flashing as she leant back in her chair.
Remilia decided then that she did not like Ruxandra.
"My mansion commands the Black Sea. Whatever enemies exist in the west, the Ottomans can't be ignored," Remilia replied.
Ruxandra leant back, saying nothing for a moment. "Your mansion? Who was your father, who owned it beforehand?"
Remilia said nothing for a long time.
"Vlad Tepes Dracula?" Ruxandra smirked, calling out the lie.
"A necessary tactic to avoid bloodshed," Remilia countered.
Once more, Ruxandra's eyes flashed. "A vampire that avoids bloodshed by disguising herself as one of our noble line? You do intrigue me, Miss Scarlet—that is what you have taken to calling yourself, isn't it?"
Remilia kept her mouth shut, knowing she had to choose her words more carefully.
"Well, fear not, my little charlatan, for I have been watching you, and I approve of what I have seen so far," Ruxandra simpered. "You have shown qualities entirely befitting Dracula's line."
Remilia said nothing, her mind whirring as to Ruxandra's intent.
Ruxandra clicked her fingers, and two ghouls, dishevelled and rotting, staggered in, holding an object blanketed with a white cloth. As soon as the object came within reach, Ruxandra pulled away the veil.
Remilia's breath hitched in her throat.
"So? What do you think?"
Remilia's red eyes slipped from the canvas to Ruxandra. "Lady Ruxandra, I could not possibly accept— why, I am not worthy."
"No, you are not," Ruxandra hissed, putting Remilia on the backfoot. "You are nameless. Bloodless. A ragpicker and a pretender."
Remilia's wings bristled at the words, and for a second thought she might kill Ruxandra then and there. She'd likely die in the attempt, slain in turn by Ruxandra, Mihnea, or their countless supporters.
It was only the thought of Flandre waiting for her that stayed her hand.
"That is also why you cannot afford to decline this offer." Ruxandra went on, "Come now, isn't he handsome?"
Ruxandra's fond farewell was like poison.
Remilia whipped the reins, her teeth gnashing as her coach wheels sliced through the churned earth of Transylvania. She'd killed and killed and killed her way through invaders, vampire hunters and undead boyars.
As she followed the dirt track through the muddy battlefield to her home, her ruminations turned vicious. Was this what it had all been for? A sulphur scented wasteland of broken stone and a fence of impaled bodies, backlit by a burning sky? Is this what she had been waiting for? For their supposed lord to pull the wings off of flies and play at church whilst the country burned?!
He was not worthy! He was not worthy!
With one hand fuelled by rage, Remilia cast the fictitious portrait of Mihnea off of the coach. She didn't watch to see how it bounced and broke. She rode hard for her Scarlet Devil Mansion, the wind ruffling her pastel-blue hair.
Once she was home and robbed of her vitriol, Remilia curled up in her bed, still clad in her mud-splashed doublet, jerkin and hose, her eyes watching the window and the burning, stake-marked horizon beyond it.
She heard her bedroom door click, and she tensed.
"It's okay, Remi." Flandre's voice was so small and so timid it broke Remilia's heart. "I can—"
Remilia relaxed for a second as the silence hung between them.
"I can— I can marry him, i-if—"
"No." Remilia threw the covers off of herself so quickly that when she turned, she saw Flandre flinching. She saw that her little sister's eyes were red and puffy from weeping.
For an instant, Remilia imagined this fragile thing having to live in an unfamiliar castle surrounded by strangers and wed to a sadistic maniac that was in love with his father's shadow.
"No, Flan. It's okay," she whispered, beckoning her close. Flan hesitated, then rushed in, hugging her fiercely.
"It's alright," Remilia lied, knowing that she'd have to send word tomorrow. Would she marry the petulant little tyrant? Would Flan? Would she resist, and add another inexorable enemy to the list? It was only a matter of time before the pope called a crusade, or the Ottomans blasted the cliffside to pieces and sent their mansion into the sea.
"Flan," Remilia murmured as she kissed the top of her head, "we still have those books in the library, right?"
"Books?" Flandre asked.
"Grimoires, scrolls. Occult stuff," Remilia whispered back as her fingers toyed with Flandre's blonde locks.
"Umm," Flandre managed.
"Do you like it here?" Remilia asked as she thought about the fantasy books she'd read to Flandre when they were smaller, of green fields, of noble kings slaying dragons and reigning over prospering lands.
Flandre thought about the blackened and befouled earth outside, the smell of dead bodies, the frequency of Remilia's brooding spells and all the bad people that had tried to hurt her big sister.
"No," she admitted.
Remilia gave Flandre's head another loving squeeze.
"Then," she withdrew a touch, smiling down at her little sister's face, "I've got some reading to do, haven't I?"
London
Don't!
Sergei staggered back as a stab of pain hit him behind the eyes. The Chinese gatekeeper, perplexed and still some distance away, stepped back.
She was right to.
She leant back hard as a hot, poisonous wind rushed past her face, blowing her red braids all about.
Meiling retreated another pace, loading her right hand to counter her attacker.
But the Russian hadn't followed her. He was standing back, a hand to his own temple, his shoulders shaking as he began to laugh.
"The man's cracked!" one of the nearby humans exclaimed. Meiling said nothing, her eyes always on the Russian as she held her ground.
She's more dangerous than we thought. We cannot fight her here, not alone. Please, Sergei, we know where they live now. Go back to Mister Stables, let us—
"Shut up!" he bellowed.
Not a soul moved.
A dark chuckle rolled out of Sergei. He offered his opponent a wintry smile as he opened up his arms, as though presenting a target.
"Perhaps later we will dance. Then, I will set to excising. Dasvidaniya," the Russian said before he turned and began his journey back to his master's house, muttering as he went.
Meiling's gaze followed him, her hands still formed into fists.
"Miss? You're bleeding," one of the humans observed.
Meiling only felt the pain when her attention was drawn to it. She bent her elbow and looked down her forearm to find a long red line dribbling from a gash in her wrist.
She afforded it only a glance, unsettled by the heat haze that rose off of the Russian's back as he walked away.
Part of her wanted to kill the Russian before he gathered himself and came back for another showing. To be able to cut her without a blade, without touching her... There was something about him that made him a threat to the mistress. What's more, his upset made him unpredictable, and that made him all the more dangerous.
That realisation snapped her out of her musing. It made Meiling turn on her heel and hurry through the gate of the mansion. She'd sent Sakuya on ahead without any direction.
There was every chance she'd get herself hurt, every chance she'd meet the wrong sister.
Remilia leant forward on the balustrade as she observed the flowers beneath them.
"Well?" the glum voice asked from behind her.
"Well what? I didn't quite hear you," Remilia admitted as her attention lingered on the tulips. They reminded her of the boiled sweets that she and Sakuya had brought home; little curved tablets of plastic colour.
"You were going to tell me what you would've said to me if your newly acquired maid hadn't secured the permissions of the tutor." Patchouli's murmur was accompanied by the crisp snap of a page being turned.
Remilia turned with a smile and leant back, her elbows on the white railing that surrounded the balcony, now shaded with umbrellas set up by Koakuma, the witch's familiar.
"The outcome was never in doubt, Patchy," Remilia said.
Patchouli stared at her before she lazily clicked her fingers.
At the sound, Koakuma staggered onto the balcony with them, a large glass orb clutched to her chest. She moved over to the table, setting it down with a thud.
For a moment, Remilia observed Koakuma. As always, Patchouli's library assistant wore a tidy black dress with white sleeves, her burgundy hair and red tie a splash of colour on an otherwise neat uniform. Unlike Remilia, she had two pairs of wings – one set sprouted from her back, another smaller set emerging behind and to the sides of her head.
She thought they looked like the antennae on an insect, unkind though the comparison was.
"Thank you, Koakuma," Patchouli said delicately, tossing a smile towards the little demon.
Koakuma beamed back, shakily murmuring an 'I serve' before bowing to Remilia and leaving them alone.
Another page fluttered over as Remilia stared sullenly at the crystal ball.
"So you've been spying on me," she said.
"I've been checking up on you, Remi," Patchouli corrected, her eyes leaving the book to look over Remilia's face.
To her relief and annoyance both, she still donned that arrogant little grin of hers.
"I knew Patchouli Knowledge would be so well armed for the task at hand, and fortuitously ready for the work ahead!"
"What are you talking about?" Patchouli asked, her weary eyes watching from beneath her unruly fringe of purple hair.
Remilia waved her hands submissively. "I will need inside knowledge from my Knowledge," she saw the way the witch's frown deepened, "to convince Mister Osbourne of my worth. It would pay to know about him."
"Would it not be simple enough to speak to him with hat in hand? It seems your maid thinks that's the problem," Patchouli said.
Remilia's questioning expression encouraged her to go on. "If you spoke to him as though he was your peer?"
"Or," Remilia sounded, "I could tell him what I am."
"A terrible idea," Patchouli stated as she returned to her book.
Remilia rocked back as though physically struck. "Well, why is it a terrible idea?"
"Because they that believe in vampires these days fear them, hunt them, or both," Patchouli explained. Remilia forced herself to scoff at that.
"D'oh. Like anyone will be hunting for our kind at this tim—"
"And the other half of humanity believes that vampires do not exist. Those are the two possibilities. Now, stop tossing out assumptions that contradict the knowledge you value so highly."
Remilia scowled as her fists closed.
"I'm trying, Patchy," she grated.
Patchouli blinked, her eyes leaving the book to look over at her. Recently, Remilia had been distant and stubborn, ignoring Patchouli's suggestions. Such behaviour didn't leave the witch inclined to help.
However, Remilia had taken her in when no-one else ought to, given her a home free of persecution, and a sanctuary from stifling tradition in exchange for her counsel and her company.
And Remilia was trying.
Patchouli lowered her chin. "I'm sorry, Remi. I appreciate your efforts, and I don't suppose my snarky attitude will help you. Will you at least consider my advice?" Patchouli asked, forcing a smile and levelling it at Remilia.
The dead princess nodded wordlessly.
"Approach him with humility. A lack of it can leave a bad taste in the mouth of those you might wish to befriend," Patchouli said.
"Mmm," Remilia murmured.
"Perhaps more importantly, you should…"
"Yes?" Remilia asked.
"You should be honest with him—that is, as honest as is prudent to be. Most humans regard honesty as a sign of reliability. We should know; we used to live amongst them," Patchouli said, wincing when she'd realised what she said.
"…Yeah," Remilia agreed. "Is there anything else?"
"No— Yes, there is." The witch leafed over a few pages to the formulae she had written down. "I've been compiling the ingredients necessary for another shift in location. Given the scarcity, I will have to sacrifice direction, and—"
"That will not satisfy," Remilia cut across.
"Eh?" Patchouli managed.
"We will need precise calculations this time. This last time," Remilia said, her signature smirk returning.
There was a pause.
"Don't," Patchouli muttered.
Now it was Remilia's turn to be confused. Her look prompted Patchouli, who eventually averted her eyes.
"Don't get my hopes up. Not again."
Remilia left the balustrade. At her approach, Patchouli looked up at her.
"Gensokyo," Remilia said.
Patchouli sighed as she shook her head. "Remilia, I'm very tired—"
"Be tired. I don't care. We're going to Gensokyo. My best witch—"
"Your only witch."
"—my best and only witch. She found me," Remilia purred, "the locale, the ideal place for our august group of misfits, and I'd be remiss if I did not use her wisdom now."
Patchouli looked worried. Remilia gave her a confident grin.
"So make the preparations! You have our previous journey's calculations logged, yes?" Remilia asked.
"You know I do." Patchouli sighed heavily, blinking hard as she looked over at the orb on the table.
"Good. Means you're not working from step one, you just need to add or subtract a few miles here or there, or whatever. Now, is there anything else before you show me what you can about this Mister Osbourne?"
Patchouli had been on the cusp of scoffing at Remilia's downplaying of the magical complications, but when it came to other matters, one plagued her mind.
"…Your sister needs to speak with you," Patchouli said.
"Tell her to wait," Remilia countered almost immediately.
"I can't," Patchouli sighed.
Remilia's chin lifted, frowning at Patchy's choice of words. "Can't?"
Patchouli hesitated. "She's growing unstable," she decided.
"Show me my sister." Remilia asked, leaving the balustrade to approach the table. Patchouli leant forward, her pale white hand stroking the glass of the crystal ball, coaxing the twisting smoke within it to roil and turn over itself, faster and faster until it cleared.
"Meiling and myself, we've done our best to persuade her, but without anything concrete to share with her… Oh, no."
They saw her through the murky portal of the crystal. The devil's little sister, standing sullenly before a slashed bed, a cratered wall, the wreckage of a ruined bedroom…
And before her, shaking, stood the maid with silver hair.
Before Patchouli could rise from her chair to hurry inside, Remilia was already gone.
The servant girl struggled to stay conscious. Her head throbbed as an invisible force dug into her shoulders. Her knees felt weak. She could feel her eyelids struggling to stay open, but she didn't dare close them, not in this place.
At first glance, the little girl with blonde hair in her pink pyjamas didn't look dangerous. A casual observer might find the twig-like protrusions sprouting from behind her back curious and perhaps marvel at the sixteen colourful jewels that hung from them, but they wouldn't feel threatened.
Not until they saw the glowing red eyes and the bitterness they held. Not until they watched her right hand's fingers grow crooked—as though the little girl was holding a ball that fitted in her palm—and felt the crushing pressure mount on them.
"Why did you wake me?" the girl in the pyjamas asked.
"I'm sorry, miss. I-I got lost," the servant girl admitted.
The girl in the pyjamas said nothing. The servant girl felt as though she was living moment to moment, the tension across her body shifting, bending, testing.
"Tell me why I shouldn't play with you," the girl in the pyjamas said, her voice laden with menace.
The servant girl didn't have an answer for her. She'd rushed into the mansion to escape Sergei's attentions, only to be stopped dead by this creature that looked like an ordinary girl. She'd lived in fear of discovery, pain, imprisonment and death, and now, to find there were other things like her master, his sister and his underlings…
Tears ran down the servant girl's cheeks, her mouth opening to say something.
"Why are you smiling?" the girl in the pyjamas asked as she began to open her clutching hand.
Like that, the pressure almost disappeared. The servant girl shuddered, her strength failing her. She would have fallen if that invisible force had disappeared entirely.
"Do I amuse you?" the girl whispered, her tone suggesting that the servant girl had best provide her own answer.
"I am terribly sorry, miss. It was inapprop—" the servant girl whispered, her mind whirring as she contemplated the best thing to say to this unknown.
"Go on, tell me." The girl in the pyjamas demanded, "Tell me why you smile at me."
"I have spent a long time worrying over my sins, only for this to happen..."
The girl in the pyjamas tilted her head.
"Sins?" she asked, her voice lacking the icy sharpness it had possessed a moment ago.
The servant girl nodded, her smile fading. "Yes."
"Did you steal?" the girl in the pyjamas asked.
A pressure of another kind returned to the servant girl, a pressure that rested itself around her throat.
"You might say that, yes," the servant girl admitted.
"What did you steal?"
The servant girl could still recall the hunted look her victims had given her before the bag had slammed over their heads. She could recall the wild eyes darting this way and that for an escape as her master later went in with the knife, the last despairing howls—
The servant girl coughed as her throat constricted. "Things that can't be put back."
"Did you mean to?"
The servant girl was taken aback by the question.
"I never wanted to," the servant girl whispered. Her captor—the girl with blonde hair and the crystal branches—seemed to untense, a flicker of fragile understanding in her red eyes as she opened her mouth to speak.
"Flandre! Sister, Flan…"
As Remilia's voice delivered those three words, the world shrank. The servant girl took in a sharp breath as she was held in place by raw terror. The entire room groaned as though the foundations of the mansion were being twisted.
The girl in front of her was no longer so demure. She grimaced, her eyes glaring past the servant girl at the newcomer.
"You woke me up with her," Flandre Scarlet snarled.
"I didn't," Remilia said, hurrying over to the side. The servant girl felt some of the pressure slip from her as the little sister's gaze followed her elder sibling.
"Then why is she here? She's your pet now, isn't she?" Flandre asked, her eyes going wide. "Why are you here?"
"She got lost, Flan. I never— I came to talk to you. Patchy said you needed to speak with me," Remilia said, her voice suddenly dreary.
"You're a liar," Flandre decided. "You don't want to talk to me. And! Liars get punished, that's what you told me."
"Flandre, don't do this," Remilia pleaded.
The servant girl felt her heart shrink when she heard the uncertain note in Remilia's voice. Just what was this Flandre?
"Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I do what I want? Go outside? Leave forever?" Flandre fired back.
"Because I want to take care of you, Flandre. I love y—"
"Liar!" she snarled, her hand snatching something up from her bedside and pelting it at the ground with bulleting force, so fast that the servant girl missed it.
The alarm clock bounced and struck Remilia's leg. With a supernatural strength behind it, the clock exploded, sending shattered plastic, cogs and splintering metal across the room.
Remilia flinched. Flandre paused. Her snarl was gone. Instead, her mouth hung open, mortified as she searched her big sister's face for something, anything.
"I-I'm sorry—" she stammered.
"Yes, well. Perhaps we should return to having the door locked to keep this from happening again." Remilia cut her off, her expression like granite as she went to take the servant girl's arm and walk out of the room.
She stopped when she felt resistance.
"Sakuya, keep up," she said.
"I-I can see my own way out. You— Is it alright, to leave her like this?" She turned to look over at the girl in the pink pyjamas, only to be dragged back.
"I can. I will," Remilia hissed, pulling Sakuya hard enough to off-set her.
"Please, don't. Not on my account…" Sakuya searched for an excuse as they went closer to the door.
The both of them jumped when they heard Flandre shriek. Remilia turned about fast, expecting a blow.
There was no such attack. Flandre was on her knees, her hands in her tousled hair, a frustrated roar billowing out of her. The mansion itself seemed to writhe in sympathy.
Sakuya tore her eyes from the screaming girl to look over Remilia. The mistress' mouth hung open, her expression aghast.
She watched as Remilia held her hand out, as though about to grip something out of the air.
"Go to her," Sakuya managed.
"What?!" Remilia shouted as sobs crept into Flandre's wailing, every piercing shriek forcing another pained moan from the mansion's bones.
"Be her big sister. Listen to her! Listen to her!" Sakuya shouted.
She watched Remilia turn to confront her sister, even as the little girl howled, even as the mansion began to shake.
Sakuya's eyes caught a sparking light that flared and crackled around Flandre, one that waxed with her tantrum.
A staff had appeared in Flandre's grasp. It was crooked, hooked on one end, and it was enveloped in a brilliant fire that crackled with erratic life, leaping across the carpet and rushing the walls of the basement room.
But the fire did not burn the girl, nor did it singe her clothes. She strangled it with her hands, slashing the floor with it. The fire did not behave like ordinary fire. It did not dance, it splashed and sliced and hammered and whirled at its owner's behest.
Sakuya saw Remilia rush Flan.
On Sakuya's words, Remilia Scarlet was rushing this cyclone of fire and fury.
"Mistress!" she screamed, trying to follow her, but the flames were fierce and forced her back.
Breath and smoke caught in her throat as she watched, shouting, then wheezing after Remilia.
The last thing she saw before the smoke strangled her into unconsciousness was Remilia grasping a hold of Flandre.
"Hey. You waking up?"
The servant girl stirred, coughing. Her throat was raw and her skin felt itchy and heat-hardened.
She was lying in a bed, in a guest room coloured in all shades of red.
At the foot of the bed was Flandre, still dressed in her pyjamas, still flanked by multi-coloured crystals hanging from those branches.
The servant girl scrabbled backwards as she threw the covers off of herself, her hand rushing for a weapon.
"I-I'm—" Flandre stammered out.
The servant girl paused. She saw Flandre's puffy red eyes and the exhausted slope of her shoulders. It didn't stop the servant girl being afraid, but it took the edge off her fear. It kept her sitting down.
"I'm sorry for hurting you, Miss Sakuya, " Flandre mumbled. The apology sounded like it had been encouraged, but it was sincere enough.
The servant girl regarded her warily, trying not to cough overtly. "Did you burn Miss Remilia?"
"What? No, I'd never do that!" Flandre whispered, upset at the suggestion.
"Where is she?" the servant girl asked, looking about the room as she contemplated Flandre's words, recalling their time at the circus. Who had burnt her so, then? She hadn't imagined the scarring she'd had to cover up…
"I can go get her if you want," Flandre offered.
The servant girl contemplated saying no, but Flandre got up and nodded with childlike certainty.
"I'll go get her," she said and hurried to leave.
The servant girl watched her go and realised that those had not been branches.
The servant girl could not relax once she was left alone. She had fled into the mansion to remove herself from the Russian's presence, only to find herself threatened by a girl who was apparently the mistress' sister.
She was surrounded by monsters. The Russian and the cabal her master had drawn around him, this mistress with the scarred face, her devilish sister and her esoteric servants.
With a shuddering breath, she let herself fall back into the marshmallow-like softness of the bed and tried to relax.
In the end, neither sleep nor Remilia came for her.
"Ah! There she is!" Meiling chirped as she opened the door, clad in her green dress.
The servant girl looked on at her with eyes like dulled silver.
It only took a moment for Meiling to recognise that her trademark blithe energy would be of little comfort here. So she adjusted.
"You're safe now," Meiling said, speaking gently as she approached the bed. "The confused gentleman decided to leave the premises of his own volition."
The servant girl's gaze affected the middle distance as more thoughts clouded her head. Why had he come here? Was he here to kill Remilia? To kill me? What's to stop him coming back again, with the ocean spirit and the others? What if they hurt Meiling? Should I return to the master and—
"Hey, it's alright!" Meiling insisted, her voice laden in sympathy.
The servant girl realised she was crying. She realised she was tired. And anxious. And terrified. And hopeless. And—
And she was making a scene in front of someone who couldn't begin to understand—
"I-I'm…!" the servant girl choked as her hands went to her eyes, trying to stem the flow.
"It's okay. It's okay." Meiling's voice came closer.
"It's not… You can't…" the servant girl hissed. How had she been so weak, to go along with his plan in the first place? What had compelled her to obey?
She felt something made of silk move against her hand. She looked up.
She saw Meiling's fingers shrouded in an embroidered handkerchief. They were locked gently around her wrist.
"I won't let anyone hurt an employee of the Scarlet Devil Mansion," Meiling said earnestly, her voice so strong and yet so soft that it made the servant girl briefly forget about her fears, her sins, her bondage.
Meiling slid the handkerchief up into the servant girl's grasp. She smiled just a little brighter before she began to back, to give the servant girl the room.
"Don't—" The servant girl's voice was a hoarse whisper and her grip on Meiling's arm was weak, but it was enough to stop her.
Slowly, the gatekeeper sat herself down on the bed. "If that will help you sleep, Miss Sakuya," Meiling said tenderly. She went to the side of the bed and sat herself down, offering her hand.
The servant girl laid back as she took it, the pillow sighing as her head hit it. Her hammering heartbeat steadied as her off hand clutched the gatekeeper's fingers.
Just for a little while, Sakuya would forget her real name.
Remilia, Flandre, and Patchouli crowded the crystal ball.
"She is very weak," Patchouli said.
"She is, I know, because when I was talking with her she, umm…" Flandre trailed off.
"That is quite fine. I don't need any more soldiers, after all," Remilia said airily. "I doubt she'll stay weak for long."
"What makes you say that?" Patchouli asked. Remilia opened her mouth and raised a finger to respond, before she rounded suddenly on the table and latched her hand over the crystal ball.
"Show me Edwin Barnes!" Remilia declared.
The smoke began to roll, only to come apart to reveal empty glass.
"…Show me," She paused, "Edwin Barnes!" Remilia exclaimed again, her other talons pointed skyward.
Again, nothing.
Remilia glanced Patchouli's way in a clear appeal for help, so as to not appear foolish in front of her sister. The hint was not lost on Patchouli, who furrowed her brow as she tried to coax the mists within the glass to stir with a wave of her fingers.
"Edwin Barnes. This is someone who might know what afflicts your maid?" Patchouli asked.
"He is the maid's current master," Remilia said curtly. "I met him yesterday, and he was resistant to my attempts to purchase her from him. His ownership is transient, however."
"What's transient mean?" Flandre asked.
"It's a big word for big sisters." Patchouli handled Flandre's query before contemplating the Barnes problem further.
"An alias, perhaps?" Patchouli leant back, catching the disquieted look Remilia threw her.
"There is no Edwin Barnes. He gave you a false name," Patchouli added.
"Which means he's hiding something…" Remilia whispered, cupping her own chin with her fingers.
"What could it be?!" Flandre exclaimed, keen to join in on her sister's melodrama.
Remilia glanced at Patchouli, then back to her sister before she smiled. "What indeed? Is he a murderous rakehell? A thief of lives and fortunes? Or perhaps—"
"Sakuya said she stole," Flandre said.
There was a pause.
"She stole?" Remilia asked.
"Yeah. She stole things that couldn't be put back," Flandre explained.
Remilia and Patchouli looked at one another.
"What's a rakehell?" Flandre asked.
"…Flan, you wanted to talk to me earlier," Remilia said.
"…Yeah," Flandre said, her fascination about this Edwin Barnes now replaced with something tired and raw and wary.
"I'm sorry that I wasn't there to listen to you. You must think I'm the worst sister," Remilia sighed.
"…Not really the worst," Flandre admitted.
That got a smile from her elder sister.
"I know we had to run from the baddies," Flandre continued.
"We're still running, but not for much longer," Remilia said, turning and flashing Patchouli a charming smile. "Patchouli has found a place for us to live."
"A place to live?" Flandre asked, turning to Patchouli with wide, trusting eyes.
Patchouli was low energy most of the time, but when thrust into the limelight in front of the scariest resident of the mansion, she felt obliged to emote.
The magician smiled widely. "Gensokyo. Once a desolate scrap of wasteland in the east, now a paradise that accepts everything."
"Even vampires?" Flandre asked in wonder, her smile for once bright and excited.
"Even vampires." Patchouli nodded sagely. There was a pause.
"Even the bad vampires?" Flandre asked in a small voice.
"There'll be room for your sister, if that's what you mean." Patchouli smiled smugly as she caught Remilia's irritated grin.
"No, the bad vampires," Flandre insisted, her brows knitted.
"They won't be allowed in, Flan," Remilia said as she approached her. "Once we go to Gensokyo, we'll be safe. You, you, will be safe." She emphasised, a hand going to the side of Flandre's head and bringing her in for a hug.
"Once we're there, you and I can have that talk. Okay?" Remilia asked.
"'Kay," Flandre whispered. Remilia looked down at her with a grin, grateful to see Flan's shy little smile peeking up at her.
"Sorry for hitting you," Flandre mumbled.
"I know," Remilia replied. Flandre nodded mutely before she said she was going to go and play.
Remilia let her go, privately wishing she could go join her, rather than visit this Mister Osbourne a second time.
"That was unlike you," Patchouli piped up, her attention fixated on the crystal ball. "Mind explaining?"
"Ah. Advice from a very weak person," Remilia explained with a smile.
Patchouli glanced over at her mistress. "Shall I diagnose the patient, once Meiling's done fawning over her?"
"Would you? I would appreciate your eye for detail in this matter," Remilia said.
Patchouli shuffled in her chair as she settled back in to watching the looking glass. "You should've said 'I forgive you' when Flandre apologised, by the way."
"I'm sure she knows." Remilia shrugged, turning to go back into the mansion. Patchouli watched her go, allowing herself to smile before her attention locked on the crystal.
Once Remilia felt she was out of sight of the doorway, she changed her direction so she could follow Flan's trail.
Patchouli would spend all of a minute jotting down an outline for her research into Mister Osbourne before deciding no researcher could be without an English muffin, retiring into the mansion herself to raid the kitchen.
The crystal ball sat there, inert, before the clouded centre parted to reveal a single leering eye that peered out through the purple, filmy darkness. Its red iris constricted, the black-as-coal pupil leaping warily all about the glass.
Satisfied that its operator's possession had gone unnoticed, the eye turned inward.