Eye of the Storm

This was a story I'd been wanting to write for months but finally made myself sit at the keyboard and get it out. I know it needs a LOT of work so don't go soft on me!

 

I’ve grown up in the time of the King’s War, aptly titled because it’s apparent in the air of every home, tavern and station that he’s the only one with any personal interest invested in it.  It’s all personal interest, and hell to those of us who end up sleeping under patched roofs as a result.  The worse is when it rains.  I detest the rain above everything else in the world, and I want to make sure it hears my voice.

“Clear up already!” I exclaim as I hug my arms tightly against my body.  I’m under the awning of the local tavern, watching the sky fall down around me.  Children pass by, anxiously clutching the hands of their parents as they jump over puddles.  Men enter through the double doors, not paying me a second thought or glance.  Every now and then, the bartender becomes aware of me and tosses out some old bread.  Most of the time I think he just wants me gone. Having kids in rags pleading for a meal on their front steps being bad for business.

“Hey, Minerva.”  The door opens up at my back and I jump, surprised.  The bartender.

“Hey Alvin,” I reply.  “Keeping dry?”

“Yeah,” he said, “And you do the same.”

He hands me a piece of bread and shuts the door.  I let my ears fall to the sound of the rain, focus on each drop as it pelts the cobblestones.  The way something impacts can tell you everything—the power of the drop, the height it falls from, and the density of the stone itself.  If I focus hard enough, I can hear when it’s lightening up, so I’ll have enough time to run back to my shelter.  That’s when I first hear it—puffs of breath, weak and muffled.   As I concentrate, I imagine a chest heaving intently, and the high-pitched whimpers belonging to that of a child.

Getting frustrated with the sound, because it’s interrupting my concentration, I stand up and throw soaking wet locks of hair over my shoulders.  I step into the alley neighboring the bar.  Pressed against the wall is a small boy, very close to my age but perhaps a few years younger—eleven or twelve?  He has scattered blonde hair that’s so wet and heavy its sprawled in drags on the sides of his head.  His clothing is torn but not patched, and once he becomes aware of me, he crouches into a corner and tries to cover each tear.  His face is a deep red from steamy tears.

“Hey,” I say calmly and approach him.  “The awning’s the best place to stand.”

He ignores me and keeps crying, pretending to look away.   I stand beside him and let my back drop against the wall.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, wondering if I should lay an arm on his shoulder or not.

“I-I can’t find him,” he stammers and cradles his face in his hands.  “I lost him.”

 “Who?” I press, but still maintain a tranquil tone.

“My brother,” he gasps.  “I lost my brother and we were supposed to meet here but now I don’t know where he is.”

“Well,” I say after taking a moment to collect my wits, “I know lots of boys.  Is he our age?”

He nods sheepishly.

“What does he look like?” I continue.  “What’s his name?  I can ask around for you.”

He slowly opens his jaw, but just as I think he’s about so speak and help me out, he kicks up his feet and takes off, running out of the alley and rounding the corner in front of the bar.  I cry out, “Hey!” and try to pursue him, but there’s no way I’ll be caught pursuing a boy I don’t even know through weather like this.  I sigh and return to the awning.  Still, I feel bad for him.  He’s missing his brother, and people should hang onto what family they have, although heaven knows I’m the last person to be thinking that.

 

*          *          *

 

“Close your eyes, Minerva.”

“They are closed,” I lie.

“Stop fibbing and close your eyes,” she snaps.  How does she know?  She’s not even looking at me.  God, I hate living with this woman.  It’s like having a narrator constantly peering over my shoulder and announcing everything I do that’s wrong.  I sigh and close my eyes.  “Excellent.  Now, clear your head.  What are you thinking of?”

“How much I want to open my eyes.”

“If I didn’t promise your father to raise you then you’d be with the rats right now,” she scoffs.  “Live with something as stubborn and selfish as yourself.  What are you thinking of that pertains to something outside of you, if you can muster that concept?”

“How many times do I have to say I can’t do this?”  I frown, because it’s the truth.

“How many times do I have to be reminded of how lazy you are?”

“Not everyone is talented, as you say,” I sigh.  That’s also the truth.  This woman’s brilliant.  She and I are in constant opposition, but I can’t deny that she’s gifted.  I just wish I was as well so I would have an easier time proving her wrong.  I purse my lips and concentrate.  The street that runs in front of the mansion appears before my eyes, and above it are thin streaks of clouds.  I strain to hold onto this image as I speak up, “I see the front of the manor.  There’re clouds, and they’re really pretty.  Wispy, you know?”

“Talk to me like you didn’t start learning your alphabet yesterday.”

I grunt and, in frustration, almost lose my image, but still cling to it.  “They’re a perfect white.  You know, like an untarnished fabric or a parchment that hasn’t yet been painted on.  They’re growing more distant, though, and I can see storm clouds coming in.”

“Good,” she replies.  “Now open your eyes.”

I obey and gaze intently on the woman sitting before me.  Thin silver hair falls neatly, elegantly over her perfectly straight shoulders.  Her chin is held upright.  Slowly, she peels back eyelids to reveal vibrant blue pupils.  She always sits with such a dignified pose, and I know how much my slouching bothers her because she makes a big deal about it every time we sit down.

“There’s a storm coming,” she says, “And I saw it.”

“If you saw it then why did I need to?” I roll my eyes with a groan.

“Because I need to know if you can,” she snaps.  “God’s sake, Minerva, can’t you stop being defiant for one second?”

Her name is Siona, and for all intents and purposes, she’s my mother.  I try to not crack an age joke because that will only get me slapped.  Her body looks as if it’s ready to crumble at any moment, but inside it is a spirit more ferocious than that of the entire royal army.  I don’t have siblings, or a biological mother or father.  All I have is her, for better or worse.

“I will make a pupil of you yet,” she says as she leans over to extinguish the candle that was, until this moment, burning brilliantly beside us.  “Even if that’s the last thing I do.”

“It won’t happen,” I laugh, and I know I’m right because I’ve made up my mind that I don’t want to be one of her pupils.  That would require too much of my time to sit and be yelled at for something I’m obviously not good at—focusing and imagining.

 “It will happen because it’s the only wish your father made of me,” she replies bitterly.  “Now go to bed.”

“It’s dinner time!” I moan and stumble to my feet.

“Yes, but in this house, only Watchers get to eat dinner,” she answers.  “Go to bed.”

I could sit around and humor her, pretend like I’m really seeing the storm as it encroaches upon the city, but that’s such a waste of time that I’d rather go hungry.

“There’s no use in practicing a dead art!” I grunt and reach for the door knob.

“A dead art?” she asks, and I can hear the defiance building in her voice rise.

“Yes!” I reply coarsely.  “It’s dying and soon no one will even care about it.”

“I will excuse that because you are not my blood child,” she says flatly.  “Bed.”

No one’s made me hate rain like Siona.  I go to bed that night, ignoring the hunger cries of my stomach, but I can’t ignore the thunder and lightening as it explodes over the city.  Through the slits in my curtain, flashes of light seep in and illuminate the walls.  The shadows that are outlined are the things of nightmares, but that’s how it is when you can’t see.  Your imagination runs away with everything, although in Siona’s mind, I’ll never have enough of an imagination.  I smell her smoking her pipe well into the night.  Its scent wafts through the floorboards.  Disgusted, I hold my breath so I don’t have to inhale that corrupt air and pass out until morning.

 

*          *          *

 

The street is cluttered with mud and leaves after the storm.  I crawl out from my shelter floorboards and stretch.  My clothes are still wet, clinging to my form, and will take all day to dry.  

“Mornin’,” my intrusive roommate says as I sit up.  “You came back late last night.”

“Leave it alone, Doyle,” I grunt.  “The weather was bad.  I couldn’t return until it let up.”

“Well kid, if you need me for anything, I’ll be gone all day,” he says before pushing past me, through the door.  I never ask Doyle where he goes when he heads out.  I met him after my spending my first night on the streets and he took me into his shelter without any questions.  He still calls me kid, even though we’re almost identical in age, just to irritate me.

Feeling my stomach growl and realizing I’m once again going to spend the day alone, I set off in search of food.  Alvin might have some extra scraps he’s ready to throw away.  I make my way back towards the tavern.  Passing through the alley next to Alvin’s, I freeze.  Flashbacks play in my mind of a strange dream I had last night with a mysterious boy looking for someone, and that’s when I realize it wasn’t a dream at all.  The boy is standing in front of me, once more in the alley outside the bar.  He’s bent over in a trashcan, sifting through it for God knows what.

“Hey,” I say and approach him.  Startled, he jumps and pretends like he wasn’t looking through trash.  What a terrible liar.  The stench is all over his clothes. “Have you found your brother?”

“No,” he says in a meek voice.  He’s no longer crying, but his eyes still carry heavy red lines. “Have you seen him?”

“I don’t know,” I snicker, “Will you finally give me a name and a description?”

He drops to his knees.  I join him as to keep us at eye level.  Siona always said it was easiest to talk to someone that way.  Whether or not it’s true, it was always easiest for me to talk back to her when I grew enough to meet her height.  Softly, he says, “Devon.  That’s his name.  He looks like me, he’s, um, short and, um, eyes and hair like mine.”

“Okay, that’s a start,” I say as I begin to search my memory for anyone by the name of Devon.  Nothing comes to mind right away, but in order to buy some time, I press him for more information.  “Where’d you last see him?”

“In back of our house,” he whimpers.  “I was supposed to wait for him outside, but he didn’t meet me.”

“Sounds like you should be behind of your house,” I smirk and pat him on the head.  He flinches and pulls back.

“Can’t,” he replies with a solemn face.  “We were thrown out.”

“Oh,” I lower my eyes, dropping my sardonic tone.  “I can empathize.  I was kicked out of my house, too.  Say, do you think he was let back in?”

“No,” he says as his breath becomes short and his chest rises in small puffs.  I can tell he’s on the verge of tears.

“Hey now,” I bring my hands to rest on his shoulders.  “Why don’t you give me your address?  I’ll see if he went back there at all.  You never know.”

“Really?” he asks as his eyes brighten.  “I wanted to go back myself but I can’t.”

“I’ll be happy to do it for you,” I say.  “What’s the address?”

“Twenty-seven Pickett,” he replies.  Pickett.  I remember that road with a shudder.  All the rich people live on Pickett.  Rich people like Siona.

“Okay,” I stand up, “And if I see him, who am I supposed to say is looking for him?”

“Rowan,” the boy replies.  “T-thank you, miss.”

“Minerva,” I reply with a pleasant smile.  “Call me Minerva.”

I depart from the alley, wanting to have a drink.  I’ve never tasted alcohol, aside from Siona’s finest wines at our dinner parties and that carried a bitter stigma.  She would put me in fancy gowns and corsets tied up so that I couldn’t breathe.  Still, the thought of passing through Pickett street is enough to make me wish I could be pulled away from reality.  I make my way towards the edge of the ghetto, and where all the expensive houses are.  I try to not let myself think about it, but the fences on these yards cost enough to feed Rowan and I for a year.  Did my parents ever have one?  I know they used to live on Pickett street, or at least that much Siona has told me.  She may be full of it, but I’ve always trusted her voice when she’s talked about my parents.  There’s a sincerity that I don’t perceive in her tone at any other time.

Twenty-seven Pickett.  I start counting as I walk down the road.  Twenty-five.  Twenty-six.  Twenty-eight.  What?  Did I read wrong?  I glance between the numbers on the edges of the mansions, struggling to see if somehow a there could be a mistake, or something to convince me I’m just not perceptive enough.  There is something I didn’t see the first time around.  A small path running between the two mansions, like an extended coach drive.  This house’s occupants must be very wealthy.  I walk up the drive, hoping that I don’t get arrested because I have a feeling that these are the kind of people who see anyone in rags as a threat to everything they hold dear.  I reach the end of the drive and glance up the hillside on the edge of town, expecting to see something magnificent.  What I see is stunning, but not in a way it should be.  Standing in front of me is the remains of what I’m sure was once a great mansion.  Pillars and walls condensed to piles of rubble and carbon.  Outlines of rooms, but all the stone’s collapsed and the wood’s been burnt into near nothingness.  I don’t know where Rowan got the idea that his brother might be here, but it’s clear that this place has been like this for quite some time.  Decay like this could not have happened overnight.

For some reason, as I stand there, I’m sick to my stomach.  The stagnant air is getting to me, but the strange thing is, the air only seems to stand still around this mansion.  Everywhere else has a nice autumn breeze.  I lurch away, back down the drive and onto Pickett street.  I return the way I came, back towards the ghetto and I only feel comfortable when both my feet are on rickety cobblestone.  I go back to the alley to look for Rowan and tell him what I saw.  He probably had the wrong address, but that’s all right.  As soon as I meet up with him, I can get the correct one and go look again.  All I know is I never want to return to that mansion on Twenty-Seven.  I’m not a watcher. I despise the art, but standing in front of the ruins of that mansion was the first time in my life that I’ve ever felt disgusting for having Watcher blood in me.

 

*          *          *

 

“Minerva,” Siona says coolly, “I need you to focus.”

“What am I focusing on?” I ask as I open both eyelids.  The room is lit with one lone candle, and as is typical, it’s in Siona’s control.

“The rain,” she says as her voice becomes an uncharacteristic delicate soprano.  Siona’s seemed so tired lately.  Maybe after all these years of raising me, I’ve finally exhausted her, both mentally and physically.  She lets loose a cool exhale.  “Did you enjoy your party?”

“I guess,” I shrug, “Although it really wasn’t much of a party.”

“Watchers don’t celebrate with music and dance when they reach adulthood,” she replies.

“Seventeen’s adulthood in this world,” I speak up, irritated by her mention of Watchers.

“Thirteen is adulthood for Watchers,” she chides, “Because after thirteen years, you’re supposed to be proficient in the art.  You, however, are not.  And I am hoping tonight will prove otherwise.  Close your eyes and focus on the rain.”

As difficult as it is to accept Siona’s advice, I force myself to close my lids and concentrate on the sound of raindrops striking the mansion roof.  There’s a rhythm to the way it falls.  Each drop has a cadence, which my breath soon joins.  Siona’s voice gradually dominates the melody with her own humming, and I hear the beginnings of a symphony in my ears.  It’s not long before I don’t notice the darkness behind my own closed lids, and colors slowly blend into my vision—green and yellow.  A tree forms before me, and with the cadence of the rain, its branches begin to bulk and sway.  Next to the tree stands a house, and inside the house is me.  I’m small, so small that I don’t understand why this woman with thin but beautiful blonde hair is tucking me away somewhere that no one can see me.  She kisses my soft skin and tells me she loves me, but at the same time I know she’s saying goodbye.  My father is beside her, waving at me with tearful eyes.  He encloses his monstrous hand over my tiny palm for a second, then releases it and lets the other woman, my mother, lower me into something small and wooden.  A lid closes over me, and as startled as I am, I know to not cry.  I hear a scream, and then silence.  I make no noise for hours and fall asleep to the silence of my mind.  The only thing to wake me up is light from the lid being opened, and a woman with silver hair gazing down at me.

“Minerva,” she whispers, “You’re going to come with me and not make a word.  I will take care of you now.”

The image stops because I command it to.  I open my eyes to Siona’s study and the lone candle still burning between us.  My breath is short and my hands are trembling, fingers curved into tight fists where my nails are digging painfully into my palms.  Siona’s straight and stern as ever, silver hair cascading over her shoulders and her eyes studying me.

“What was that?” I gasp as I struggle to recover my breath.

“I think you know what that was,” she says quietly.  Suddenly I realize what all this was for—the cake, the formal celebration, her soft demeanor.  A betrayal, and one of the worse kind.

“You set me up!” I exclaim as my fists become tighter, breaking the surface of my skin.

“I did nothing of the sort,” she scoffs.  “No one knows what a Watcher will see when she concentrates intently on the rain.  It does something completely different to the world that—”

“Why the Hell did they die that way?” I demand as I fight the urge to hit her.  “You told me my mother hid me in the woods and she was killed in her sleep when she felt no pain and—!”

“Minerva,” Siona speaks up sternly.  “That is what I tell a child who doesn’t have the mentality to cope with the painful truth.  Yes, I set you up, because as a woman in the Watcher world, I want you to understand everything about your past and what this talent can do.  Do you think after your father told off the King, he’d just let them die peacefully, in their sleep?”

I puff my chest.  “This is the biggest waste of time and—”

“The people need us,” she replies.  “Close your eyes and capture the motion of the clouds.  You can tell when it will storm.  Focus on a single person or their possession.  You can tell their demeanor, which will tell you if they’re lying or not.  Sometimes, if you concentrate hard enough, you can peer into memories, like you did just now.”

“As you can see, I was much happier in the dark a moment ago,” I narrow my eyes. “So tell me, why did my father argue with the King?”

“Because he didn’t like what he saw in the King’s intentions,” she replies coolly.  “And he was always an honest man.”

“So this art killed him,” I spit.

“You have no idea how mistaken you are,” she frowns, planting her hands on her hips.

“And you’re a fool!” I respond bitterly.  “Because you can’t see that it’s this, not the soldiers, who killed him.  If he didn’t study this, he never would have gotten into a fight with the King, and—”

“Don’t use my best friend as an excuse to make up for your stubbornness!”

“I wish this stupid art would just die, like they did!” I say brusquely, and I mean it.

 “Do you know what happens when a language dies?” she asks and lowers her gaze. “There are certain words only one language has.  They are the first to disappear.  Soon, concepts and sentences won’t be complete, and that will leave a gap in our knowledge.  Before long, people forget the language’s contribution to the world.”

“So?” I shrug.  I want to fling the candle at her and burn off all that annoying silver hair. 

“So,” she frowns in a blatant struggle to hold her composure, “Everything is created by races and microorganisms working together.  The death of this race is the death of this balance!”

“Don’t talk to me about death!” I scream and stand up.  I kick the edge of her desk and my hands begin to throw papers to the floor.  I know I’ll feel much better after I do this.

“Minerva, calm down!” she barks.  I ignore her and push her aside as I approach the door.

“I’m an adult now?” I sneer.  “Great.  That means I don’t have to put up with this anymore.  I wasted my time with your lessons.  Now, there’s nothing you can do to control me.”

“This makes it quite obvious that you are an immature, spoiled child!” she says and reaches for me, but I’m already pushing the door open.  I slam it in her face and storm off to my room, where I proceed to knock everything over.  I feel a thousand times better when I’m done.  So good that I can even sleep peacefully that night.

 

 

I can feel the eyes of the world watching me in smug satisfaction as karma finally delivers the fate I was meant for.  The taste of blood is feint on my tongue.  Siona didn’t mean to be so rough, but she’s been long overdue to lose her temper with me.  Upon waking up after my birthday, she’s standing over me and pulls me up by my hair, only to drag me roughly downstairs.  If that means to knock me into a few walls then so be it.

“Get out!” she hollers and wrenches me towards the front door.  She’s so rough that my body’s trembling.  I’d plead my case but there’s nothing to plead.  This is what I’ve always wanted, right?  A world without Siona?

“Gladly!” I exclaim and pull my arm back to my side.  Regaining my balance, I look her squarely in the eyes.  Her pupils are ablaze.  I can feel the intensity of her anger.  It penetrates my skin, bones, driving me on.  All I want is to make her hate me even more.

“You belong out there!” she says as I push open the front door.  “With the—”

“—Rats,” I finish coarsely.  “I know.”

“You may be an adult in Watcher’s society,” she sneers.  Locks of silver fall over her face, covering up one eye.  I bring my attention to the anger burning in the one visible pupil.  “But you’re the most childish person.  You shame your parents and you shame me!”

I only half hear her.  My attention is split between her and the downpour flooding the streets.  Prisms of water drain from the sky.  The bitter angst of the world.  I feel like last night was nothing, and my celebration is now.  Everything I’ve ascertained with Siona is now gone.  Her money.  Her lessons.  I start to take a step outside, but a bolt of lightening crackles across the sky.  The explosion and echo of thunder leaves me paralyzed.

“What are you waiting for?” she says and gives me a shove outdoors, into the rain.  I stumble into a puddle of mud.  Within seconds, my clothes are soaked and clinging to me.  I can’t buy new ones because seventeen is age of adulthood in the normal world, and it’s not until then that society will let me access my inheritance money.  For all her talk, Siona never had a good head on those old shoulders.  How did my father ever come to be friends with her?  I think it’d be best if my parents had just let me die with them so I’d never have to suffer under Siona’s cruel reign.

Picking myself up from the mud, I set foot into the storm.  It will be a long walk before I find shelter.  None of the people on Pickett Street will let homeless, starving orphans linger on their property.  It creates the impression that they have a single humane, compassionate bone in their body, and that won’t be accepted in this community.

God, I hate the rain.

 

*          *          *

 

Everything’s as familiar as ever when I wake up.  Mud on my clothes, empty stomach growling with no way of filing it.  I yawn and stretch as my eyes adjust to the light.  Since when has the sun been this bright through the cracks of my shelter?  I curse as I realize it’s not the sun at all, but some sick, twisted young man with a lantern.

“Happy Birthday!” Doyle says with a voice that’s far too cheerful for waking me up.

“What in blazes, Doyle?” I grunt and rub my eyes.  All I see are spots from the lantern.  Why did I ever tell him when my birthday is?  “You’re one day late.”

“Really?” he blinks.  “Either way, I stole a loaf of bread this morning so we can share it in celebration of you spending one year with me as my roommate.”

“Aw,” I roll my eyes, “You stole for me.  I suppose I’ll forgive you for waking me up.”

He tears the loaf in half and hands me one of the ends.  It’s warm and so soft that it melts on my tongue.  He frowns, “It’s after noon.  You should have been up long ago.”

“Yeah, you’d think,” I sigh, “But I had a sort of problem with some local kid.”

“Serve his own behind to him?” he asks with hungry eyes.

“Well, I would if I could find him,” I say and lay back on the planks to relish in my now bulging stomach.  “The punk told me some crack pot story and ran off, leaving me to wander the streets like an idiot.”

“What’s his name?” he asks between chews as he shoves the last of the loaf in his mouth. “Maybe I could track him down and beat him up for you as a birthday gift.”

“Nah,” I shake my head, “Leave him alone.  I think he’s delusional.  He thinks he lost his brother.”

“So what?” Doyle shrugs.  “People disappear all the time.  Think of what you told me about your parents or the Marcello family.”

“The Marcello family?” I raise a curious eyebrow.

“Jonathan Marcello and his family,” he explains as he picks at the crumbs on the planks.  “They were one of the wealthiest families on Pickett Street, but one day he gave the King a piece of his mind about the war.  The next day, his mansion was found burnt to the ground, with a few pillars and doorways remaining.  Both he and his family supposedly died in the fire.”

“Bloody,” my jaw falls open and, for the minute, I have no control of myself.  “They—”

“Disappeared,” he finishes for me.  “No, it’s not right, but that doesn’t stop it from happening.  I’d tell the kid his brother’s dead, because it’s probably the truth.”

“That’s so cold!” I shudder and draw my limbs in so tightly that they hug my body.

“That’s life,” he replies.  He sits quietly on the planks.

“When did this happen?” I frown.  “I used to live on Pickett Street, but I don’t remember ever smelling smoke or anything.”

“That’s because the King did it the weekend of one of his Carnivals, two or three years ago or so,” Doyle sighs.  “When he knew no one would be home at night.  No one went home the night of the Carnivals.  Too much stuff still happening in the City.”

He finishes and goes back to his silence as he rests against the planks.   He’s right, but I still can’t help myself.  I rise and make my way towards the rickety door of the shelter.  “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” I lie, because I’m fully conscious and aware of my motions as I push open the shelter door and carry myself to the edges of Pickett Street.  I walk along the outskirts and trace my way back up the hill until the ruins of the mansion are in sight.  I leave the cobblestone path and feel the tall grass brush against my skin through my thread-bare rags. 

Hovering over what must have been the door, I feel little more than a sense of unease.  I step gingerly onto the remains, walking lightly out of fear of the entire unstable structure caving in on me.  Despite wandering the structure, I don’t feel anything until I reach the back wall.  Standing against the remaining pillars of it, I want to cry.  Fighting the tremors in my limbs, I hold my chin high and step over the crumbling wall into the grass of the backyard.  I take one last cautious step forward before I feel myself being dragged towards the grass.  Hands might as well have reached through the earth and entangled themselves over my limbs.  I’m powerless against the force as it pulls me down to my knees.  My head becomes dizzy as thoughts swim in circles.  Quickly, I remember Siona’s lessons and cross my legs over each other, straighten my back and shoulders, and exhale.  The weight becomes lighter and lighter as I focus on the clouds.  Now all I can think of is the sky and my head is silent and clear, with one vivid image of the dark gray background of a storm brewing.

“Rowan!”

The voice belongs to a frightened blonde woman at the edge of her youth whose face replaces the clouds.  Appearing out of the air and clutching her hands are two young boys.  They’re standing under the rafters of an attic.  One of the boys looks up at her with wide eyes.

“Pay attention,” she pleads in a fierce whisper that’s barely audible against the sound of slamming doors and furniture being thrown and broken.  I, being the other brother, smell smoke.  It makes my eyes water and my throat sore.  I cough.  “Devon.”

I look up at her, knowing she’s referring to me.  I want to speak to her, but my throat hurts so much from the smoke and I know I’m not supposed to talk.

“Follow your brother no matter what,” she says frantically as she adjusts my coat with long, elegant fingers.  She’s trembling, and I can’t understand why because my mother’s never supposed to be afraid.  “Don’t ever get separated.”

“Mother,” my brother pleads.

“Mommy.” I whimper with him.  We both are realizing we’re never going to see her again, but we don’t understand how or why.

“Shush,” she says and embraces me, planting soft kisses all over my face with cold lips.  All warmth is now gone for some reason I don’t know.  “Follow your brother in everything, and always listen to him.  He knows what’s best.”

She turns to my brother, kisses his right cheek and holds him tightly.  “You’re the man of the family now, but I know you’ll be all right, because you’re strong.”

The sounds are loud and the smoke is so heavy I can hardly see.  With one last sad glance, she runs down the steps, leaving us alone.  My brother wastes no time in grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the back window of the attic.  He pushes the glass open and lets in all the cold wind and rain from the outside.  He slips out quickly.  I must obey my mother, but as I poke my head out and see the ground, it’s so far below.  My brother’s already begun to climb down, but how can he hold on?  The rain’s made everything slippery.

“Devon!” he hollers.  “Move!”

I know I have to obey, but I can’t.  I look down at him and hear the men trying to force their way into the attic.  I can’t move.  Too much is going on that I don’t know how to deal with.  Daddy told me men are good, so why are they doing this to us?

“Devon!” my brother screams.  I look down at him again but I still can’t move.  The first man breaks in and comes charging at me.  He grabs me by the shoulders and forces me away from the window.

“Brat!” the man spits.  “Where’s your brother?”

I don’t look down.  Somehow, I manage to whisper, “In the house, downstairs.”

The first man turns to the other men that have come to the attic and tells them to get out and search the area for my brother.  The smoke is so heavy and so are my eyelids but they force me to stand up and drag me back to the front door.  Rowan’s fast.  He can run.  I hope, as we get out to the front and the men look through the yard, he’s already running.

“Who’s the brat?” one of the men asks.

“Marcello’s kid,” the man who’s holding my arm replies.  “We’ll let the King decide what to do with him.”

They drag me down the road, through the grass and heavy rain.  I’m shaking, but I’m so exhausted, so tired and cold that I don’t care anymore about anything except Rowan, and how fast he can run.

 

 

The image fades and I’m left standing alone, in the rain and my wet clothes that I’ve convinced myself will never fully dry.  Everything’s so cold, and for a second, I glance down at my own hand and jump.  It’s mine—me, Minerva, feminine but still rough from digging through dirt and trash every day.  The rest of me must be here as well, because most certainly the Mansion isn’t.  Nor is Devon.  I shudder to think of where he was taken to; my entire body is ready to convulse, and all I can do is cradle myself.  The trance like pose is gone and I can’t get it back.  I want to know what happened to Devon, and where Rowan is right now, but I can’t make myself do it.  Slowly, drops of water fall onto my palms.  My own tears, falling separate but in synchronization with that of the rain.  Rowan and Devon.  Their voice is lost to the world and their story will soon be forgotten.  No one but me knows if either of them are still alive, and I can’t clear my head enough to be able to return to the trance and find out any more.

Rowan and Devon, I promise that I’ll never forget your voice.  Not even in a hundred years, if I’ve lost the memory of how Siona made me see my parents die, will I ever forget what happened here.

Siona.

It’s down pouring as I pick myself up from the grass and stumble down the hillside.  Mud clings to my shoes, making it difficult to walk.  I can taste the freshness of rain in my mouth as it clears the air.  I still don’t have a clear head, but all I know is I have to go to this place, because if I don’t, Rowan and Devon will have meant nothing.  I want to go find Rowan, but I don’t have the energy to wander that far into the ghetto.  It’ll have to wait for another day, when hopefully the weather will let up. 

I am just as I was one year ago—standing in a mud puddle, in front of Eight Pickett Street, clothes soaked and wrought to my form, and tears draining from my eyes.  With trembling hands, I knock cautiously on the wood.  No response at first, but there’s a light burning in the study on the second floor.  It’s the brightest thing I can see in a city where everything’s been clouded over and rained out.  I knock a second time.  Pause.  No sound.  One last try before I give up and return to Devon.  I tap my knuckles against the wood one last time before turning around, only to hear a door open at my back.  Slowly, I bring myself to face it.  All I see at first are silky ivory garments, and silver hair cascading over perfectly straight shoulders.  Raising my gaze to meet her intense eyes directly, I swallow and struggle to hold my composure.  She’s waiting.  I’m surprised she hasn’t slammed the door in my face already, but at least she seems to want to hear me out this time.  I pause and quickly collect myself.  Get control of my own voice.  I expect her to sneer or do something vicious, but instead, she says quietly, “Lessons will begin tomorrow.”

I walk in out of the rain and close the door at my back.  The strong stench of her pipe is wafting through the mansion.  It’s repulsive, but I can bear it.  Unlike Devon and Rowan, I have at least, for now, found a home.

Author's Note

I find the title to to be absolutely abysmal. I want to change it, but for the time being, in fact for a while now, I haven't been able to think of anything else.