From the Ashes of Victory: The Complete Series, page 78
part #0 of From the Ashes of Victory Series
As the buzzing through the crowd simmered down, Vickie returned to her seat, leaving Millie standing alone again.
For the third time since the end of the rally, Katya stood to shake a stranger's hand, and forced the same smile on her face that she had worked tirelessly to perfect into an indistinguishable facsimile of a real one.
"Thank you for agreeing to talk to us today, Miss Gurevich." JURY-vich, Herbert Wiseman from the The Sentinel said.
"Not at all," Katya replied. Crossing her legs and letting her arms rest in her lap, her pose was as false as her smile, and just as rehearsed. As much as it had taken for her to look in a mirror again after arriving in Longstown, it now felt like she did nothing but, re-training herself in skills she had let atrophy with the rest of her body during her perilous flight from Russia. At least, she thought, it was paying off, as the reporter's response was just as she wanted: affable and sympathetic.
"Could you tell us a little about how you wound up here in Longstown?" he asked in a way that very much spoke to the misapprehension that he was the first to do so.
"Of course," Katya said, and launched into the story she'd honed down to a few sentences she knew so well she barely had to think about them. She didn't even have to worry about tripping up over using Anastasia's name, as it had been collectively decided to keep her a secret regardless of what name they used. Keeping her story down to the most compelling details in short, quotable forms, she went over her flight across Europe and her subsequent 'adoption' into EVE with her sister Russians, climaxing with Inga's heroic sacrifice at the Flying Circus.
The reporter's pen flew as he scribbled, and Katya kept her eyes on it to make sure he wasn't colouring her commentary with any speculation or embellishments. There were many parts of her journey that she had left out on purpose—she didn't need anyone accidentally making up the truth.
There was pain in those details, pain that had yet to scar over as well as the self-inflicted wound on her left wrist, which she kept carefully concealed under long sleeves. On her right was perched a rather gaudy corsage that served as a suitably shouty distraction for wandering eyes.
"Is that where the Firebird monicker came from?" Mr. Wiseman asked genially, his face showing empty ignorance of how Katya felt about that name getting out; Zoya's last contribution before she'd headed back to help smuggle more Russian witches to safety.
"No, that goes back a bit further," Katya said tightly, her smile managing to disarm her voice somehow, as the reporter didn't press for elaboration.
Instead, he seemed more interested in getting as many questions out as possible rather than drill down into any one of them, which suited Katya just fine. "And what is it that EVE does, Miss Gurevich?"
"We train young witches in the proper use and control of their abilities in a safe, controlled environment under the supervision of more experienced, more practiced witches." The official line had the enormous benefit of being true, just not all of it.
"A school?"
"Of a sort."
"Is witchcraft something that requires training?" he asked.
"Much like any trade or craft, a certain amount of apprenticeship is required to fully realise our potential, yes. Many of us believe that a witch without training isn't really a witch any more than someone who can mix eggs and flour is a baker," Katya said with a reassuring smile.
"Are untrained witches dangerous?"
"No more than a teenager. What are they but untrained adults? Witchlights don't come to the untrained. They're earned," Katya said with genuine emphasis. That part was absolutely true.
"Could you demonstrate for us?"
"I would be happy to."
From Katya's upturned palm, a small white globe of glowing energy rose at her mental command, swelling to the size of an orange before sliding up her finger to rest on the tip, which she held up for the cameraman. "Though you'll find they don't register on film very well."
The man behind the camera triggered the shutter anyway, and Katya managed to keep her sigh to a mere deep breath. Every single one thought they were going to be the one to do it, without doing a single thing differently than everyone else who'd tried. She didn't know if it was completely futile, as no-one had ever tried before a few months ago, but she had no reason to suspect a different outcome.
Magic and technology had never been brought together before, and they were all discovering just what happened when they were. Witchlights and other concentrations of magic ruining photographs was one of those outcomes. Even the witches themselves seemed to have an effect on them, with close-up photos coming out grainy or with odd artefacts, making some completely unusable, and not even Vita could explain it. It was, however, one of the few times she had ever been willing to let an open question stay that way, as she liked having her photograph taken the least of all of them, and having a handy way to ruin them was a tool they were all rather keen on keeping.
The photographer's Sisyphean task as complete as a Sisyphean task would ever get, Katya let her witchlight evaporate with a flourish that widened the eyes of both men opposite her.
The rest of the interview went as all the others had, banal questions about extraordinary things, something Katya was quickly coming to regard as impressive. The revelation of magic and witchcraft to the world had been somehow made boring by the way it was written about, so much so that Katya and the others had begun believing it to be on purpose.
There was a vested interest in keeping people from panicking, and that, combined with a general sort of weariness that was still very much palpable eight months after the end of the Great War, had led to a much more muted reaction than Katya had feared.
Tales reached them from the hinterlands about 'trials' and other forms of persecution in isolated areas, but nothing that anyone had been able to run down as credible, though Niamh was constantly out trying.
Having been the victim of real, concentrated persecution herself, the rumours and hearsay were always in the back of Katya's mind. As a witch, an immigrant and a woman, she maintained a healthy paranoia about the subject, and took nothing for granted. But couched in a place protected by very powerful witches, it was a concern that faded with the more and more normalcy witchcraft was treated with.
Then she would remember Inga's lifeless body, the pool of her blood. The strongest woman Katya had ever known had been killed in this 'safe' place, just at the time it was beginning to feel like home.
She had allowed herself complacency once when it came to life in Longstown, and it was something she didn't think she would be able to repeat.
Millie often spoke of 'the day they come for us,' and it was a term Katya wanted desperately to avoid using. She didn't want it to be true, and so she smiled and answered questions she'd already answered a thousand times. She repeated the same stories the same way, to make them 'normal.' To make her 'safe' and 'palatable' to the rest of the world.
All along, since her first lesson in witchcraft with her grandmother, Katya had been waiting for the day she could just be a witch. Nothing more, and nothing less.
As she stood to thank Mr. Wiseman for his time and the opportunity, only to quickly greet his successor, she was still waiting.
On Millie's last visit to the cemetery, it had been pouring rain and freezing cold. Today was brilliantly sunny and warm enough that Millie had her torn, blood-spattered jacket tied around her waist. She'd finished her shift following the conclusion of the rally, but hadn't bothered to change. She would need to go home to do that, and not going home was why she was here instead.
It wasn't far to the grave she sought, it was too new to be very deep within the grounds, so far from the church the shadow of the steeple never reached it.
Kneeling, she brushed away grass clippings and dry leaves to set a single white rose against the smooth granite headstone that marked the final resting place of Inga Tupoleva.
Such were the circumstances of Inga's life that her birth date was nowhere to be found on it, only the day she'd died and the words 'Gave her life so that others might live'. Nothing about her service in the Russian army, nothing about being a witch. Nothing other than how she had ended up under Millie's feet, thousands of miles from home.
"I'm sorry I haven't come to visit," Millie said. She squinted against the brightness of the still-new stonework in the unimpeded sun as she stared down at the simple inscription, hammered by hand into solid granite. "I wish you'd been here today."
Though they may only have been on friendly terms a few weeks, Millie had quickly grown used to the idea of Inga as a kind of kindred spirit. Another Manifested witch who carried the burden of responsibility for the physical safety of the others.
With Niamh always away on her own unique 'errands,' as she called them, now, Millie doubly felt Inga's absence. She had no-one to share with anymore. Patrolling the airfield had been much more enjoyable with someone to talk to, to say nothing about how much she had learned about how to fight from Inga. If she had been at the rally, Millie's attacker would have never gotten his knife out without Inga walloping him with one of her bear-like hands.
But she hadn't, because she wasn't here anymore. She was the ultimate reminder that no matter how strong any of them might be, death could come for them anyway. Inga's Manifest would have probably let her live indefinitely, yet she'd been taken suddenly and violently, and it was the cold hand of her ghost that Millie felt brush the place the knife had snapped against her witchscale.
She had briefly wrestled with guilt about what she could have done when Juno came crashing down on them, but it would only have diminished Inga's sacrifice for Millie to blame herself. Inga had known the risk and taken it anyway.
So Millie was the one still standing in the sun, while Inga rested in eternal darkness.
From behind came the sound of shuffling, hesitant footsteps, and Millie turned to see Svetlana approaching. Her auburn hair was free and unbound, the dull reddish-orange of fall dancing in the breeze of early summer. It had always seemed fitting, to Millie. Svetlana's Manifest was so burdensome, it kept her on the perpetual edge of winter's melancholy, yet she was still brilliantly colourful in her own way.
"I saw what happened. But your colours were wrong after the rally, and I saw you come this way," Svetlana said. "I thought you might need to talk to someone."
"I did," Millie said, gesturing to the grave in front of her. "So you didn't come for her?"
Why? Did you? Millie asked herself. She knew the answer, she just hoped Svetlana wouldn't sense it.
"I come here every Sunday."
If Svetlana had hauled back and punched Millie square in the gut, it wouldn't have made her feel as sick as those five words did.
"But right now, there's nothing I can do for her," Svetlana said. "So, no. I came for you."
"That's very kind of you," Millie said.
"I do not appreciate your sarcasm. Have I ever been anything other than genuine to you?"
Heat flushed Millie's cheeks, and she tore her eyes away from Svetlana's to stare at her own shadow.
"I don't seek your shame, Millie. Your burden is singular again, and I am concerned for you. Do you wish to talk?"
Something within Millie shrivelled up and died in the light of Svetlana's genuine, heartfelt concern. The stench from the rot quickly grew bad enough Millie had to open her mouth. "I'm sorry I spoke to you that way. I know you mean well."
Svetlana nodded. "You are deflecting your concerns, shaping them into barbs you do not mean. I am not the one you wish to speak to. I understand."
"No, Sveta, I don't mean that, I—"
"Yes you do," the Russian witch said.
Millie looked back up to see her smiling, thin rings of gold on the edges of her mossy-green irises.
"I always know what you mean, remember. If you meant to offend me, you would lie to me. Confusion isn't lying. But standing here now, I know that I'm not the one you need to speak to, and neither is she," Svetlana said, pointing at Inga's headstone. A gust of wind blew Svetlana's hair about, but she made no move to do anything about it. "I know you know, too."
"Aye," Millie said.
"Aye," Svetlana repeated, with the same Scottish inflection.
"You doing that on purpose?" Millie asked, her eyebrow arched in genuine curiosity.
"No. It just happens sometimes, now." Svetlana's voice was one of resignation. "It's also why I can't give you the hug you need. I'm sorry. Physical contact makes the… connection… stronger. Too strong sometimes, now, especially with those I am closest to. But please know I would like to, and would be offering it to you if I could. You deserve that much."
"Thank you, Sveta. That's very kind of you," Millie said, and meant it this time.
"If you would like a few more minutes with Inga, I will be waiting at the gate. You won't need to walk home alone today."
Inch by grasping inch, Pretoria Ferguson clawed her way through muck and reeds, cold beyond pain and weighed down by the clothing she'd been wearing when she'd disappeared below the glassy surface of the river she'd called home her entire life.
Kicking and pulling, she dragged herself to solid ground, stones tearing into her hands and knees. Too numb to feel it, she hauled herself away from the water in a trail of blood until she reached the safety of the tall grass.
Only then did she expel everything that was in her.
She heaved as filthy brown river water erupted from her stomach and lungs at the same time, slime and muck rocketing from her mouth to splatter her hands and face with mud as her body wrung itself inside-out, her screams garbled by the sheer volume she was simultaneously vomiting and exhaling.
When she was finally, mercifully purged, her screams continued, now out of terror as well as pain. Her throat was raw and shredded, but she couldn't stop, and they became strangled cries as she stared straight down at the pool of everything she'd expelled.
She should be dead.
Panicked breaths swelled her chest as she began to hyperventilate at the thought, and the world dimmed even darker than could be accounted for by mere night.
Her arms and legs were trembling in exhaustion, fear and cold, but she wouldn't let herself pass out into her own vomit, and she crawled higher up the shore to keel over sideways behind a bush.
Just before her eyes, the skin on her hands was almost translucent; ghostly white and wrinkled from its time in the water. Her fingers twitched as she stared at them in disbelief. The nails were cracked and torn, filthy with everything she had raked them across pulling herself out of the river. She felt her hair heavy on her scalp, a few wet ropes visible on the grass tangled with detritus and slick with thick brown mud.
They tried to kill me, she thought.
Glancing up and around her, she had no idea where she was. How far had the river taken her before it spat her out?
A sudden, lancing pain shot up her back with the movement, and she reached around with shaking fingers to find her clothing torn to ribbons. With the gunk under her fingernails, she didn't risk checking for signs of blood, but the hot streaks that ran along the path of the pain said that she had been dragged along the bottom, and not just floated here.
Her clothing. It wasn't, really. It was more of a sack; a hessian robe she had been stuffed into and forced to wear for two weeks before finally being tossed into the river.
The old way to check for witches.
Pretoria groaned, and had to viciously shove down the impulse to devolve into a helpless mass of sobs. Right now, she had to get up. If they wanted to know if she was a witch, they would need a body, which meant they would come looking for her, and she didn't know how long she'd been in the water.
"Get up, Pretoria," she croaked. Her voice was hoarse with screams and silt.
Looking away from the river, she wasn't far from the relative safety to be found in a copse of trees. She tried to force herself to her feet, but her body ignored her and began shaking uncontrollably instead.
Wracked with tremors, Pretoria spasmed and twitched in the grass as everything crashed into her at once; her terror, her pain, her exhaustion, her injuries, and more and more, the crushing reality that her neighbours had tried to murder her.
It was that last that allowed her to regain some measure of control over herself, providing a focus for her mind even as her body rebelled.
They'd known she was a witch. It was an open secret, it's why she'd been able to soothe their hurts and cure their ills.
The 'test' had really been an execution.
"Keep looking!" came a cry from the water, and Pretoria's blood froze.
One of her oldest memories was of that voice saying that exact thing.
Then, it had been in encouragement, as Pretoria and the other children played hide-and-seek. Gloria Robinson had had more of a hand in Pretoria's upbringing than her own mother, and that made the betrayal all the more painful.
At the sight of the soft yellow glow of lantern light coming around a bend in the river, Pretoria's body suddenly began functioning again, and her bare feet scrabbled for purchase on the muddy grass.
Stumbling away from the bank, pain once again shot up her back and she pitched forward, her exhausted body incapable of arresting her overbalance. She fell painfully on her hands, so waterlogged that great strips of skin peeled off as she hit the ground, making her bite through her lip to keep from crying out.
"There's no sign of her," said another voice, Gloria's husband, Ephraim. "She's surely drowned and gone by now."
Pretoria's head snapped to the sound, all pain forgotten, but she simply could not force her body to obey her, and she lay frozen in mud, blood and fear.
She could see them on the boat, holding their lanterns aloft and scouring the shore with glowing, beady eyes, looking for her.
For her corpse.
Overcome by the sight of her neighbours packed together in the united purpose of confirming Pretoria dead, tears began to stream from her eyes, even as she lifted a bloody, shredded hand at her pursuers. Whether to curse them or to beg for their forgiveness, she didn't even know herself.
