From the Ashes of Victory: The Complete Series, page 69
part #0 of From the Ashes of Victory Series
"Anastasia?" Victoria said quietly.
Her dark blue eyes were haunted with little light in them, but she raised them bravely to answer. "I am unsure. I was always told to keep it secret from everyone, so I never made mention of it. But my family was very fond of writing letters. If they mentioned it to each other, it's possible that… they… know."
Ivy put a reassuring hand on Anastasia's, her lips in a tight smile of pride. Anastasia kept her head up this time.
"There is another question we have been avoiding," Selene said.
"What's that?" Victoria said.
"Regardless of whether or not this is solved at such a level, this is a diplomatic nightmare. If word gets out that Britain is secretly harbouring the last living member of the Russian royal family… wars have started over far less."
"We have been helping the Whites since the civil war started. How is this any worse?" Niamh asked.
"The Whites aren't necessarily pro-monarchy. Most of them hate them just as much as the Reds. No matter who wins, we could be putting the country in danger. No-one will believe that a secretly surviving member of the royal family came here on her own with a forged passport. They'll assume we smuggled her out. We can't be preventing wars if we help to start one."
"No-one knows," Zoya said. "Her paperwork was approved as Alexandra Smirnova. Alexandra is alive and well. Anastasia is dead."
Though Victoria's lips pursed at such blunt wording, she agreed that the logic was sound. "No-one outside this room need know any different. We'll prevent a war by keeping our mouths shut. Witches are good at keeping secrets."
Though Millie felt a new kind of fear grip her chest, she watched and listened to Victoria in admiration. This was the Victoria that they had been waiting for; the Victoria that had confidence to go with her intelligence that Millie had known before her parents were killed. The Victoria she'd seen flashes of that horrible night at the asylum before the reality of what had happened hit her.
Her eyes were bright, shining blue again, the fierce mind that lay behind them on full display once more. Whether it was Yekaterina, Anastasia, or both, something had re-awoken the dormant force within her, and God help whoever got in her way now.
"Vickie," Millie said. "If it's one man or an army, it makes no difference. That girl is one of us, and there's nothing in the world that is going to get to her. I don't care if she's a princess or not, she's a witch. If they want her, they can bloody come get her. We'll be ready to meet them when they do, be sure of that. That goes for all of you. Russian, French, it doesn't matter. An EVE witch is an EVE witch, no matter why they come."
Millie's blood was practically fizzing in her veins. Witches, princesses, it was only a matter of time before someone took exception to them. If it wasn't one reason it would be another. A group of women taking it upon themselves to undo the machinations of men in power was always going to invite a response.
"We won't go looking for trouble," Millie said directly to the Longs, "but if it comes here, be prepared to watch us stop it."
Without even meaning them to, Millie's scales flared to life to crawl up her arms, the white mist solidifying not into its usual scale pattern, but a swirling, flowing extension of the intensity of her feelings. She watched as eddies and whorls swirled over her arms in fascination, the patterns moving of their own accord, when they were suddenly obscured.
In front of everyone, Elise had placed her hand atop her own.
When they looked up, it was together. Without hesitation, and without fear.
Standing across from Inga in The Shed, Niamh showed neither hesitation nor fear as she advanced, but Inga stopped her short.
"No, no, no," Inga said. "Stay small." She tucked her arms in close, while managing to keep her guard up. "No grab." She mimed her arm being pulled up and getting punched in the side.
Niamh was sweating—she hadn't been allowed to use her witchblade all day, to Millie's keen interest. She'd never actually seen Niamh fight without it, and she looked far less intimidating that way. Still formidable, of course, but without the extra threat of a supernatural sword made of white light.
But Lord was she fast. To Millie, it almost seemed a waste of time to teach Niamh defences, as she could weave her way inside anyone else's before they had a chance to realise she was even doing it.
It was the first chance Millie had had to watch Niamh work with anyone else, and seeing it from the outside made Millie wonder how she wasn't dead. Niamh really had been toying with her since they'd started just after Christmas, and having this new kind of objectivity made Millie truly realise how much she had to learn, more than getting knocked on her arse had done. That had been a panicked retreat; watching Niamh and Inga from the outside was more like a clinic.
"Fast good. But one mistake," Inga said, and gestured a knife in the heart. "Now, knees." Inga lowered herself to her knees, and motioned for Niamh to do the same.
Millie knew this would have been the point where she asked why, but Niamh knew better and did as she was asked.
"Come close. Good. Now," Inga lunged at Niamh, but without her feet under her, she couldn't move anywhere near as efficiently. Inga got both arms around Niamh, pinning her arms to her sides. "Now what?"
Niamh squirmed and twisted, but Inga was just too strong. Looking at her magic, Millie could see that she wasn't even using her Manifest, beyond what it did passively.
Without legs to knock out and unable to use her arms, Niamh was struggling for the first time Millie had ever seen. Inga wasn't even doing anything other than being strong and holding Niamh in place, waiting for her to show her solution.
When she did, Millie wanted to throw up.
Snapping her neck back, Niamh spat right in Inga's eye. The moment Inga's eyes shut against it and pulled her head away, Niamh smashed her forehead right into Inga's nose, and Millie heard the bone crunch.
Blood exploded across Niamh's face and Inga's grip loosened just enough for her to break the hold. As soon as Inga's right arm came up, Niamh used her now-free arm to unleash a terrifying barrage of blows directly into Inga's armpit and she toppled over, coughing and spitting up blood.
As slowly as it had started, it was over with shocking quickness, and Niamh was back on her feet.
"Jesus Christ, Niamh!" Millie shouted. "What did you do to her?" She sprinted to Inga's side, but to Millie's surprise, amidst the coughing and the blood, there was laughter.
Niamh strode past Millie and stuck her hand out to Inga, who took it happily and allowed herself to be pulled up into a sitting position. Every space between her teeth was dark red as she smiled. "Good."
"What?" Millie said.
"What she did?" Inga asked to Millie, jabbing a thumb at Niamh.
"She broke your bloody nose is what she did!" Millie exclaimed.
"Yes. Why?"
"She broke yours," Niamh said, wiping blood from under her eye.
"That was an accident!"
"It was a lesson," Niamh said. "So's this. Answer the question. Why would I do that?"
Millie thought a moment. "It was all you could do."
"Yes. And?"
"Well, that's dirty pool, isn't it?"
"And what did this soldier," Niamh said, pointing to Inga to emphasise the point, "tell you about war?"
"That it isn't fair."
"Good," Inga said.
"She took my speed. But in doing, I took her height. Heads at the same level now? Knock 'em together."
In spite of the blood splattered all over the floor and the slightly dazed look in Inga's eye, it was something else that bothered Millie the most. "You spit on her."
"Aye. But if you'd rather die than spit on someone, you're of no use to Elise," Niamh said flatly.
"But… this is just training. You actually spit on her."
Inga wiped at her eyes with the back of her arm. "In training, you die." Blinking a few times, she looked up to see if Millie comprehended.
"You said that before."
"Why?"
"So it won't happen again," Millie admitted, ashamed at how slowly she'd been to pick up on it. Of course. She'd been so overwhelmed by the realness of it, she'd overlooked its true purpose. Her own beating at Inga's hands had been obviously meant as a lesson, but watching it happen to someone else was somehow more shocking. She could see everything as it happened, not just react to it happening to her. The sound of her own nose breaking had blended in with the sound of the rest of her head hitting concrete, but the sound of Inga's breaking was one Millie would never forget.
"Do you want to be spit in the eye?" Niamh asked.
"No," Millie said.
"Good."
As Niamh helped Inga to her feet and handed her a towel, Millie noted how easily Inga moved despite having just had her face crushed in. Millie had barely been able to move after her fight with Inga, even if she did have two cracked ribs, but Inga looked like she'd just finished a rough football match, glowing with exertion and having imparted some kind of lesson onto someone who'd needed it.
Inga and Niamh had both killed people. As much as Millie had experienced, and told herself she was prepared for, violence, she had to remember that simple fact. The two women before her were dangerous, and Millie had to heed every action and word that reflected it. Everyone hoped that she would never have to follow in their footsteps, but after what had happened to Elise, Millie found herself less and less convinced that it was possible.
In retaliation for the violence done to Selene and Ivy, Niamh had killed ten people.
Inga had gone to war in a unit known as the 'Battalion of Death.'
It was yet to be seen what Millie would do after what happened to Elise, but picturing her black eye, the blood in her hair and the bruises on her ribs revealed when she'd gotten undressed that night, there was no-one else Millie would rather be learning from when she found out.
Glancing in the direction of the residence, and Elise, Millie's witchscale encased her completely on command for the first time.
"Your sword and your shield," Millie said, and began to run.
Even with the bruises and the stained hair, Elise held her head high, and looked out at the world with a determination that Katya couldn't help but admire. The same steely determination to stand her ground that Katya associated with France as a whole during the war was writ across Elise's face and body language. She moved slowly and stiffly still, but it only made her look like she was weighed down by armour.
Her sword was busy sharpening itself with Inga and Niamh, and as the infirmary had refused to let her work for the next few days, Katya was happy to have the opportunity to talk to her again one-on-one. For Elise, just being able to speak French was going a long way to making her look normal again.
"I am so sorry that this happened to you," Katya said, gesturing to her left eye as she poured Elise's tea. Though the bruise was far less noticeable now, it was still a disfigurement on her flawless skin. "It should have been me, like they intended."
"Nonsense," Elise said, her spoon clinking against her cup as she stirred in a dash of milk. "This isn't because of you. It shouldn't have been anyone. I don't blame you and neither does Millie, if that's what you're afraid of."
"I know, she told me. It's just… what if this keeps happening? I fled this exact thing to come here, and to know that it's followed me… it hurts," Katya admitted. She should have been here to listen to Elise and comfort her, but sitting across from her made the reality that much more real. The conduit between the target and the actual victim was becoming one for Katya's fears to spill out through: "There's nowhere else to run to."
It was bad enough that her world had been turned inside-out. Now it was upside-down, as well.
She wanted to be brave, but it felt like it was happening again. Would things unravel here as they had in Russia? Would Britain, in its mad desire to avoid that unraveling, make Katya and the others scapegoats? During the revolution, Russians had gone after Russians because of wealth disparity and rampant corruption among an incompetent leadership that had ground an entire generation of young men into mince.
Now, someone was coming after Russians because they were Russian. That was it. Katya had dismissed little Mikhail Ivanovich's concerns as rumours and propaganda, but to find out that it was true in such a visceral way was staggering.
No armour, no mask. To everyone outside EVE, she was Yekaterina Konstantinovna Gurevich, Russian immigrant. Nothing more and nothing less. It didn't matter that she was a witch. Or did it?
"You don't run," Elise said into Katya's thoughts with a new kind of strength that caught her completely off-guard. "We stay. They run."
There were shades of Millie in Elise's voice, revealing that this French rose was one hammered out of iron.
It was the answer, though, wasn't it? Why else had they come here? 11 Manifested witches was a strength unheard of in the world. If there was no safety here, then there was none to be found anywhere. For all Katya had been through, seeing Elise with fresh evidence of her attack on her face and yet seeming even more determined lent Katya a strength she'd badly needed.
"When did you know you were here to stay?" Katya asked. Elise had already been here for years; maybe there was more to learn from her. "When did you know you couldn't go back?"
Elise set down her tea and looked out the window to The Shed, and to Millie. "I think I always knew. I wasn't forced to leave France. I came here by choice, to make a difference. To pursue a chance at something better than what I was. I came here on behalf of France, but I stayed because I wanted to. I only found out later that there was no going back."
"What about Millie?"
"Yes," Elise said, smiling for the first time Katya had seen since the attack. "She is partly the reason, too."
"Partly?"
"Of course she's the biggest reason, I love her. But I stayed because I like it here. Because I am more than just a farmer's daughter, more than a woman pressed into the nursing corps because I had veterinary experience. I want to be here. This place is unique, and very special. Had I not come, I would have never known I was a witch, and certainly would have never Manifested. Millie and Victoria… my Coven. They are my life now, and I would not turn away from them for anything."
"Don't you miss home sometimes, though?" Katya asked. Was that what this was really all about? Was she getting homesick?
"This is home now." Elise reached over to place her hand on top of Katya's. "I know how you feel. After the newness wears off and you face your first difficulties, it's tempting to want to leave, even if you know you shouldn't. But things will never be how they were," Elise said wistfully, sitting back again. "And not only for us, who have nowhere to go back to. Millie and Victoria could go back, but they don't. Millie will always be Scottish, just as I will always be French. But here," she shrugged, "we are Millie and Elise. Only our future matters. That we must make for ourselves."
Katya nodded. "I suppose you're right."
"I am right. It's my job to be right." Elise's smile was disarming to a fault, and Katya couldn't help but feel reassured by it. "Besides, we won't be bothered for much longer." Her smile somehow brightened, and she looked towards the door, which immediately opened.
Vita swept through, side-by-side with Svetlana. Already dressed for the weather, they were in deep, animated conversation, and both looked like they were very interested in getting to wherever they were headed with all due haste.
"What are you two up to?" Katya asked in English.
Vita didn't even slow down, waving a piece of paper in Katya's general direction without looking. "We're off to see a friend. Don't wait up."
Clad in blacks and greys, they were both subsumed by the shadows cast by the setting sun before the door was even closed.
The entire time she'd been at EVE, Victoria had never actually ventured into Bedford, the municipality to which Longstown was a part. She had gotten used to things as they were done in Longstown, and going back to the random, ad hoc street layout and the presence of so many men was like travelling back in time. However, all the bureaucratic necessities, such as the city council and most importantly, the police, were based there.
She looked down from her watch to the note she held, written in someone else's hand, and back again. She frowned.
They both said nine o'clock.
"And they're still in there?" Victoria asked.
Beside her, Svetlana watched intently as water vapour rose from her Dewar flask, enraptured by it as much as the fact that her coffee was still hot enough to put off vapour an hour after she'd poured it.
How someone with such developed senses could drink it black was an exercise in masochism.
"Yes," Svetlana said absently, without looking up. She twisted the flask in her hands. "How does this work again?"
Victoria forgot about the police station. "It's a stainless steel vessel surrounded by a vacuum, which is itself contained by another stainless steel shell. Having a vacuum separating the liquid from the outer jacket greatly reduces the amount of heat transfer, thereby maintaining the contents at a more stable temperature for much longer. Invented by a Scottish chemist twenty years ago."
Svetlana looked up from her coffee. "Pretend English is my second language," she said with a crooked grin.
"But it— Oh. I see. It's… it's a small flask inside a bigger flask, with insulation in between."
"Ah. Magic."
"No, the engineering is actually quite—"
"That big brain and you fell for a poor immigrant's sarcasm." Svetlana blew on her coffee and took a tentative sip.
Victoria looked over at her with renewed appreciation. "And where did you pick that up?"
"Father was a diplomat. I spoke English almost as much as Russian growing up, with all the other diplomats' children. But the Americans practically weaponised it, so we had no choice but to learn to recognise it."
"Your Manifest surely helped."
"I hadn't Manifested yet. I learned without cheating," Svetlana said. She stared off into space for a moment, her eyes never changing. When she spoke again, the levity was missing. "It's always been my life, I suppose. I moved a lot, wherever the Tsar needed Father to go, he went, and took us with him. I've never been… stable. I envy you."
