From the Ashes of Victory: The Complete Series, page 81
part #0 of From the Ashes of Victory Series
So softly Millie couldn't meet her eyes. "Aye, and we're fighting. My stupid big mouth…" she muttered.
"We are not fighting, my love. You are right…"
"But?"
"But what I do is very important. I have dreamed for a very long time about doing this."
"I know," Millie said, looking down at their hands. "But I dreamed for a very long time of doing this." Squeezing Elise's fingers, she brought them to her lips before pressing the back of Elise's hand to her cheek.
A sad, ironic laugh suddenly escaped from Millie.
"What is it?" Elise asked.
"Before, it was what we couldn't do. Now, it's that we have too much to do."
But no matter how long she held Elise's skin against her own, Millie was still unable to feel the barest hint of Elise's Manifest beyond what had always been there. Absolutely nothing of what Vickie described made its way to Millie, and that was yet another stone she couldn't shake from her shoe.
"Is Vickie all right?" Millie asked. It wasn't time to explode that can of worms.
"Yes. There was no damage. She felt a pregnant woman in the next room. She was very surprised."
"I would have been too," Millie said.
But Elise, nurse or not, was very perceptive, and as close as they were at that moment, it was impossible to hide anything. "I am sorry I cannot share it with you," she said sadly. "I wish I could. I would like nothing more than to show you the world I see."
"I know. I don't suppose today shed any insight on how?"
Elise shook her head. "Non. Our first guess is still the only guess."
"I thought as much."
Pulling her hands away, Elise threw herself onto Millie's lap, draping her arms over her shoulders. They gazed into each others' eyes long enough for Millie's heart to beat so hard her hair started bouncing.
"But in every other way, I am closer to no-one than you. I am yours, and you are mine, Millie Brown. That was an accident. I share myself freely with you. And happily."
Burying her hands in Millie's thick mane, Elise yanked her head back to steal her breath away.
She took her time in giving it back.
Warmth shone on the left side of Pretoria's face, and she slowly turned to face it fully. Groggy, with a splitting headache and heavy with fatigue, she didn't question why she had to turn her head so far to do so, and chalked it up to sunrise.
But she was in the woods, there would be no direct sun to reach her.
As more and more consciousness flooded her mind, she became aware of the sound coming from the light, and her eyes flew open to see she was laid out beside the same fire as before.
Gasping in horror, she tried to sit up, but her body once again rebelled and her head fell back down to thud onto ground that was shockingly soft, which meant it wasn't the ground. It was rolled-up fabric of some kind, but she couldn't tell what.
"You're awake. Good," said the voice of the Irish witch from just above where Pretoria could see without moving her head. "That kind of power use can be hard on your body."
Pretoria sighed. Everything hurt. "Don't talk to me."
"Get up and stop me," said the other witch. "Or better yet, you talk. Why'd you run?"
"I don't have to explain anything to you. I don't know you, and I don't want to."
"Mm-hmm. I guess those things are connected? You're a witch. I'm a witch. We're supposed to be able to trust each other."
"I thought so, too." Pretoria said.
"Well, that's closer to an answer. You want some soup? It's not poisoned. I could've just caved your head in with a rock if I wanted that."
Betrayed again, Pretoria's stomach gurgled loud enough to echo off of the trees.
"Here." A tin cup full of steaming something that smelled glorious was set on the ground next to Pretoria's head, and she felt her resolve crumble into bits. She had to put something in her belly; all that she'd had in it for the last two days was river water.
She was hungry enough that the thought didn't make her want to retch.
Rolling onto her side, she reached towards the spoon sticking out of the cup only to stop short when she saw the bandages wound around her hands.
"See? I do care," Niamh said. "Your back was torn up pretty good, too, but you kept rolling over."
Staring at her hand, the bandages were perfectly white, and the cleanest-smelling things she had been near in what felt like ages. They were soft and expertly wrapped, marred only by a few random dark spots where she had bled through them already.
It was the most compassionate thing anyone had done for Pretoria since her aunt had died a week before her 'trial.'
"I can only sleep on my back," Pretoria said.
"Figured. But it's going to hurt a lot more to clean those wounds. Eat up."
The smell of the soup got her up on her elbow, and when the broth touched her tongue, she almost wept. Salty and savoury, it was thick in her mouth, and utterly delicious.
"What is this?" she asked, all pretence forgotten as she wolfed the rest down in seconds.
"Special brew designed to get you back on your feet. None of that war surplus crap." Niamh held up a metal bottle. "Fresh made this morning."
Warmth and energy flowed down Pretoria's throat and out from her stomach the way strong liquor did, but without the burning. While not rejuvenated, she certainly felt closer to human.
Pretoria looked over to the Irish witch, who was whittling a stick with light. Like a fine blade, a narrow strip of what felt like raw magic was protruding from her thumb, and thin cedar shavings were fluttering to the ground with every stroke.
"What in God's name…?" Pretoria said.
Niamh smiled, her slate-grey eyes narrowing in her amusement. "My Manifest."
That didn't help in the least. "You said that word before. What does it mean?"
"Oh, you ready to listen now?"
A sharp retort caught in Pretoria's throat, but she swallowed it back down. There was something about this witch that made it seem like antagonising her was a bad idea. She had an easy confidence about her, and an assuredness in her voice and body language that said everything her words didn't about her age and experience.
Niamh regarded Pretoria a moment before turning her attention back to her whittling. "Why'd you run?"
Resentment bubbled within Pretoria, and her bandaged hands clenched. "You're from EVE."
"A group which no-one knew about until two months ago. That's not much time to explain your reaction. Especially for a witch. I'd've thought you'd run towards me to get you out of this…" Niamh looked out into the woods. "…place."
"I don't want to leave. The fact I have to is your fault."
"How so?"
The answer exploded from Pretoria in a single gout of acid. "No-one knew about witches until you lot! I didn't even know about them! I was minding my own business, learning the basic magics from my aunt. Quiet, secret. Then one of you caught an airship with magic! And that… fire… witch!"
It was the only word Pretoria could use, but it still felt wrong.
Niamh shrugged. "They saved a lot of people that day."
"What about the ones they damned? Hmm? Those of us out here in the middle of nowhere? Nosy old biddies talk, and the rumours I didn't even know about myself all caught fire at once. They rounded me up, accused me of all sorts of things. Awful things," Pretoria said. "You said you've been here before, where were you then?"
"I can't be everywhere at once," Niamh said tiredly.
"Convenient," Pretoria said.
Niamh levelled her gaze at Pretoria, her eyes cold. "Don't."
Before Pretoria could reply, Niamh suddenly shot to her feet and stared into the dark behind where she had been sitting.
"What—?" Pretoria started, but was cut off by a slashing gesture from Niamh.
"There!" Cried a male voice from the dark, accompanied by several echoing shouts and the sound of brush being trampled through.
"Douse the fire," Niamh said in a voice that brooked no argument, and Pretoria complied without thinking. Plunged into sudden darkness, she could see the torchlights as they bobbed and swung between the trees, and Pretoria's heart stopped. How long had they been there? Who were they?
Then the light that Niamh had been whittling with changed. It grew and spread to cover her whole hand, and in a blink shot out several feet until the the ring of trees around them was brightened by a woman wielding a sword made of white magic.
"Don't move," Niamh said, and rushed forward to be swallowed by the night.
In stories, the sounds hand-to-hand fighting made in Pretoria's head were mostly horses and shouting, punctuated by the clash of steel and the thud of the slain hitting the ground.
This was not that.
It was the sound of slaughter.
High-pitched screams that should not have come from any human throat scythed the night air to rake up Pretoria's spine. The sound of blood and viscera splattering across tree trunks and the forest floor. Pleas for mercy and forgiveness turning to the hideous gargle of gushing blood as the throats that had made them were torn open.
Then the silence.
The crushing, vacuum-like silence that followed because the forest had fallen still in deference to the one thing that yet trod through it. Footsteps of the lone survivor echoed among the trees, stalking towards Pretoria, and terror thundered in her ears.
Then blinding white light filled the clearing, illuminating the blood-soaked spectre that followed.
"We have to go," the spectre said.
Great crimson slashes spattered her face and clothing, and bits of unidentifiable gore clung to her sleeves as she tossed her witchlight high above so she could go about collecting her things.
"Wh- what happened?" Pretoria stammered. The shock of Niamh's appearance was nothing compared to the fact she had thrown a witchlight.
"They came here to kill you. And me. I killed them first."
The words thudded off the dullness of Pretoria's mind—too much had happened too quickly for them to truly resonate. "Who were they?" she asked, though she already suspected the answer.
"I don't care. They meant a witch harm, and they died for it. They weren't the first and they won't be the last. And before you condemn me for not stopping them earlier, go see what I left in that wood and know that they won't be able to do it again."
Niamh wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, which only made her more ghoulish. "But do not, aggrieved and ignorant young witch, ever question my dedication to my sisters again."
Slinging her pack over her shoulder, Niamh gave Pretoria another look over. "You're welcome for the soup, by the way. Now come with me and maybe you'll get an answer or two, or stay here and fend for yourself. We need you, and you need us, but if you want to throw it all away, and let them," Niamh's tone left no question about who she meant, "win, then by all means."
For the second time, Niamh turned and stalked into the darkness.
This time, Pretoria had no choice but to follow.
"I suppose only one police report should be counted as a success," Ophelia Long said, ensconced in her high wingback chair set into a dim corner of the study she shared with her sister.
Katya loved the Longs' study. It exuded confidence and a kind of intimacy just by being allowed into it. It was personal to them, and the closest Katya would ever get to who the Longs really were. Their study, and the first floor of their home in general, were the very far fringes of where their personal and professional lives met. Built off the grounds of the airfield, it was modest by the standards of their peers. They could have easily afforded something far grander, but in keeping with their lowly roots, it hardly stood out at all among the other homes of Longstown proper.
Intensely private, even with the witches of EVE, Katya didn't know anyone who had ever been on the second floor, as they didn't have servants of any kind. To even be this far was an honour, and one that Katya always appreciated when she was given the opportunity. The Longs had very literally saved her life, and to be invited into their inner circle after only having met them four months earlier still didn't feel real.
Even in Russia, the Longs were well-known. Long aircraft were well-engineered and reliable, if not flashy or fast, and that counted for a lot. The sheer novelty of their gender raised their profile even higher, making them work all the harder to put out the best possible products. And that had been before the witches.
"I would prefer none," Katya said, taking a sip of tea.
"Wouldn't that the world were so perfect," Eustacia Long said from the opposite side of the fireplace. The total asymmetry of their chair arrangement had taken Katya off-guard at first, but now having it any other way would be strange. They didn't need to sit side-by-side, nor right in front of each other to communicate. They knew each other too well, all they needed was to be able to hear the other's voice.
"But the interviews went well? I read one," Ophelia said, gesturing to the newspaper on the table. "The writer seemed… overwhelmed."
"'From nothing, there was suddenly light. So ethereal and beautiful it was, film was incapable of capturing it,'" Eustacia quoted.
Katya blushed. "It was just a bit of magic."
"Yes, that's all. A heretofore-thought mythical bit of supernatural legerdemain," Ophelia scoffed.
"You sell yourself short, Yekaterina," Eustacia said. "Don't."
"Vita has said the same thing."
"You should listen. She's very intelligent."
"She is that," Katya said sullenly. Too sullenly.
"Ah, well. In that case, is everything all right with Grace?" Ophelia asked, completely blindsiding Katya with such a violent non-sequitur.
She choked on her tea, spitting half if it back into her cup to avoid drowning on an expensive sofa in front of a roaring fire. "I'm sorry?" she managed after forcing down the other half.
Ophelia smiled broadly, a cat come across a mouse stuck in a trap. "By all accounts, everything went smashingly, yet you seem a bit… off. Having spoken to Victoria, she said the same thing about you, so I assume it's not her. You are a consummate professional when it comes to your press duties and are not given to whinging about them. Deduction would then posit Grace the next most likely cause."
Setting down her tea, Katya dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin. "Is there anything else that might lead you to that conclusion?"
"Her supervisor said the same thing about her," Eustacia said. "As you work in entirely separate parts of the company, we have indulged you two, but if you're bringing it into the workplace…"
The knuckles in Katya's right hand popped. "Would you be so concerned over any other… couple?" Katya asked. It wasn't the right word. They weren't… that. It had been two months of agonising over every touch and glance, not… well, it certainly wasn't what Millie and Elise had.
"You want to come into this room, you get extra scrutiny. Though you saved hundreds of people by putting out fires, you are perfectly capable of doing the opposite. You could burn down everything we've built with a thought."
Aghast, Katya shot up ramrod straight. "I would never!"
Ophelia held out an apologetic hand on her sister's behalf. "We're not saying you would, only that you have the power to do so."
"What bout Victoria? She—"
"Isn't here. And for your sake, I won't tell her you tried that line of argument."
Katya puffed and crossed her arms petulantly, something she hadn't done since she was a teenager. "Homosexual relationships are supposed to be filthy secrets. If I hadn't been so honest with you, I—"
"While you are doing an expert job of dodging the question, Yekaterina, if you take that tone with us again, this is the last time you sit on that sofa, Eustacia said.
Ophelia said nothing, content in merely waiting for Katya to talk her way out of the problem she had so stupidly talked her way into.
"I'm sorry," Katya said, her cheeks aflame with something that had nothing to do with her Manifest.
"Accepted," Ophelia said. "It also answers the question. So what is happening between you two?"
Katya stared into the fire. The thing that had taken her mother, her home and her hair in one horrific night she now looked to for stability. Her Manifest gave her control over it, but there were times now that she felt that the opposite was also becoming true. One of the 'original elements,' as her grandmother had said, Katya felt a connection to, even an affinity for, fire as she never had before. Exercising her Manifest so much and so strongly since her arrival in England had deepened her connection to it, and completely flipped their previous relationship.
At the Flying Circus, the inferno that had threatened all of Longstown and the lives of hundreds of people had been averted because Katya had stared down her worst nightmare and brought it to heel; broken it like a stubborn colt. And now, like a loyal horse, it served her and did as she bid it. Also like a loyal horse, it was her partner, and she had come to depend on it to the point she lit fires in every hearth even in June just to be near it.
Long sheets of snow-white hair tumbled over Katya's shoulders and nearly reached the ground as she hung her head in shame. "I don't want to say it," she said, her voice shaking.
Whether the Longs even looked at her, Katya didn't know and didn't care. Not then. She didn't bother to part her hair, letting them look at a solid wall of unbroken white rather than see the expression that twisted her face.
"We won't force you," Ophelia said, "but it might help you if you volunteered it."
All Katya had was the floor. The polished wood, the perfectly black seams between each board. The dancing shadows.
Dancing shadows. She had those, too.
"I…" Katya started, but her mind wouldn't let the next words come.
"It's all right, Yekaterina." The softness with which Eustacia said it was so at odds with her normal tone and so jarring that it almost brought Katya to tears. That kind of earnestness was a needle so fine and so sharp she didn't even feel it slip between her ribs to force the words out of her.
"I don't know," Katya blurted. "I don't know what I want. I feel like I roped her into something I should have never done. I can't… I can't handle… this… but I can't hurt her." The next breath leaked from her until her chest felt like it was going to collapse, and her pulse started hammering her vision, demanding that she breathe again. "She is so nice… so understanding. She cares about me, but I— I can't return it. Not the way she wants. I have to force myself to endure her touch, but she's done nothing wrong! I thought… I thought I was ready."
