The Oracle

Priam focused where they watched, the blonde’s hands shaking more visibly by the second. It was true. An unsteady hand could lead to a loose grip, or a mess of other problems. There was plenty that could go wrong for her race, but the man’s issues were hard to ignore. The question was: which would find their demise first?

“I’ll take that wager,” he said, nodding as he watched the man. Without his eyes on the prize, it was all too possible he could get into trouble and be incapable of getting himself out of it. Even with unsteady hands, she might have a better chance at keeping herself out of harm’s way. Then again, he could be wrong, and the opposite could happen. But he would stand by his choice. He thought the man’s problems might yet be his winning hand.

He turned to Mallory, a small smile on his face. Now came the part that made this whole exchange worth something. The stakes. “What’s the price?”

A wager.

Their laugh, quick and manic as it came, erupted into the air. What would be the price? They knew what Priam favored. Something more abstract than money, but more substantial than most cared to acknowledge: secrets. And they weren’t in short supply.

“It depends.” They gave him the hint of a crooked smile before glancing back at the riders. The blonde would fall. Mallory was certain of it. If she didn’t, they’d gladly pay the price. “You don’t look like the kind of man who would have much use for the secrets of the universe. But you do like secrets. Would you rather have something of the enemy, or an intimate look at someone in your own ranks?”

And then it was time to name their price, and they grinned like a beast once again.

“I myself would only want names. Of any disgruntled members of your ranks.  Or of theirs… I see little difference between the two.”

“Did you? They aren’t owed to me. They each left behind people, if you want to give anyone sympathies it ought to be them,” she said with a touch of correction, though there was little heat to it and instead tinged by sadness. She couldn’t just accept the sympathies, there was an element of absolution in that which wasn’t meant for her - she was too much responsible for the deaths to be given sympathies.

“Reckless, willful disregard for certain standards, blatant disdain for certain lines? There’s no mystery in today. That was Alexander through and through,” she said bluntly, laying the blame at his feet without a singular care. And I’ll have to sink to that level to match. She almost voiced the thought, but instead, she kept it and the disgust that accompanied the idea, to herself, drowning the impulse to voice them with another pull from the glass. It was stupid that it bothered her - she had always known it would be the case at some point.

They listened without batting an eyelash, taking all she had said with perfect impassiveness. In the end there was a raised eyebrow, a tap of their fingers against the counter. “Perhaps. But I’m afraid they are not in our bar, drowning their sorrows in a glass. So you will have to do.”

“A good thing, to know one’s enemy.” Alexander - and yet, it wasn’t the knowledge Mallory had wanted. They disdained the spilled blood, of course, the jabs between mobs that could easily tear Verona apart. But they were far more preoccupied with the silent knife, the poison leading the hostility between the mobs to a boiling point. There was a missing spot in the picture. “But do you believe you know all of them? The Palio di Verona wasn’t the first time lines were crossed in these last few months.””

location: cemetery

status: open to all

It was no longer the prelude of a war. The Palio di Verona had changed things, and Mallory could already taste the blood to come, smell the sweat and gunpowder in the air. As they walked through the cemetery, they found a few fresh graves, a weeping family being hounded by a reporter about the attack.

But they weren’t there to honor the fallen.

A nun had died. Not at the races, but in the white of a hospital bed. Sister Lucia, with the stern eyes and sterner words, a pair of cold hands scrubbing the dirt out of their long hair, forcing food into their mouth whenever they forgot why their stomach growled. They hadn’t liked her, in their youth. The fondness had come later, seeping into their bones after they and their siblings had found their fortune, once the orphanage was long behind them. Some gods rewarded their worshipers. So Mallory had come to the burial, with a bruise and a some faint scratches still marring their cheekbone.

It had begun to rain by then, and they made their way towards the entrance. A figure under a black umbrella, walking away from all the others. And yet, they were not alone. There was someone else standing by, and they stopped to greet them.

“Is it a loss that brings you here? Or morbid curiosity? There are people here for either, today.”

He watched them for a moment, confused, intrigued. It was all one strange mess of thoughts after the next. Blatant answers to snarky statements and questions. All so very, strange. Mallory Chanda. The strangest of all the witches, he decided then. Strange the witch. Odd still (uncanny really) that they recognized him. Though what else could be expected from sharks who swim in the same waters? 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, head canting to the side with curiosity. He gestured to the seat nearest to him, eyes flicking back from it to them. You or your kind. Well, wasn’t that enough to put a wolfish grin on his face. “Please, bella, sit. You must forgive me, my ilk tends to be forgetful. Though perhaps you can refresh my memory as to your hotel’s standards?”

The grin fell, replaced instead with a pensive look. “That is, unless you’ve some great business that you must be getting back to…”

Bella – something flashed in their eyes at the term. Irritation, yes, but also the faintest hint of amusement. Not many had the guts to call them anything of the sort. So they raised an eyebrow, pretended to consider the request although the decision had been made. They wouldn’t turn down a wisp of something intriguing to return to their rage and feverish visions. Better to look at an appealing face than a cracked mirror.  

“Alright.” Mallory laid back into the nearest sit, still clutching their cane. “It’s very simple. No provocations. No quarreling. No disrespect to the owners.” In their chest, they felt the familiar urge to pick apart the person before them. Who was he? What were his fears? What did he want? They liked new things. “And while not a strict rule, it’s always a good idea to be entertaining…”

They glanced at the bar, then, signaling the waiter to bring them the usual. “Would you like a drink? If there’s a place in Verona where someone like you can almost afford reduced awareness, this would be it.”

Malloy’s voice drew Vivianne’s attention, adding the barest bit of curiosity to the mess that was emotional state right now, causing eyes to search Mallory’s face for a moment, looking for something though she didn’t know what she hoped to find. There was something about Mallory that was a mystery to Vivianne - the idea of being neutral in a war and then inserting oneself into it anyway, maintaining that neutrality first and foremost while trying to do… what? She didn’t know. Her conversation with Cinead at the masquerade hadn’t been particularly enlightening, she doubted this one would be any more so especially considering her temper was altogether too short.

“I disagree. You and yours are the biggest fucking mysteries in it all,” she said by way or response, voice short, terse even. “And I’m not feeling imaginative. Either tell me what you want, or leave me be. I have no patience for mysteries tonight.” Then, she pushed the glass away slightly instead of wrapping fingers about it at their last statement, a certain… petulance in the gesture. She didn’t need that kindness or that charity from Mallory or anyone else, nor did she want it. Fifteen, twenty years ago, she would have swallowed her pride and accepted the gesture, grateful that she didn’t have to pay for something when the money could be useful elsewhere, but that wasn’t her situation any longer. “No. It will be the last if that’s the case. I pay.”

“I wanted to extend my sympathies.” Their tone was dry, as deprived of mockery as it was of empathy. And still, they didn’t look away. They watched the rejection in her gesture, heard it in her voice, nearly scoffed at the audacity of it. Mallory hoped the lack of imagination was temporary. People without it were boring, regardless of how regal and sharp-clawed. “Your choice.”

It was with a careless shrug that they finally broke eye contact, glancing at the liquor on the shelves. “You can think of us as mysteries.” They supposed Vivianne wouldn’t be staring at the bottom of a glass if much progress had been made with the one of the races. “But there have been other mysterious forces at work lately, have they not?”

Ask anyone in the colosseum what they bet on, and most of their answers would involve the amount of money they put on a horse with the best chance to take home the cup. That, or they would say they hadn’t bet at all. Ask Priam what he bet on, and his answer would be somewhere between the two.

There was quite a variety placed before him, every rider hiding faults they didn’t want Priam or any attendee to see. The way they hung their head, how their hands shook when they retrieved all their equipment. They all had something he could pick apart, something he had a chance to use to his advantage without them ever knowing. With their help, he could get a reward that was just as valuable as money. And when he heard a familiar, rhythmic clacking, Priam knew they’d finally arrived. Now the fun could begin.

“They are,” he agreed, turning to look at them with a grin. Their game always had higher stakes, in his opinion. Knowledge was as powerful as money, but money he had plenty of. So long as they were honest, he had the chance to gain something – whatever it may be – very valuable today. “Like that man with the red eyes. I doubt he’ll be able to see the track clearly. Something like that might really ruin his chances of winning. He could even get hurt.”

“Ah!”

For the first time in the afternoon, they saw a glimmer of opportunity. Mallory liked money, and betting in it had brought them and their siblings many appealing things. But it was nothing without secrets, without darkness, without something alive. Priam brought the promise of it.

“Certainly.” The red-eyed jockey was a pitiful sight, to be sure. But they couldn’t quite focus their attention on him. They made a mental list of all the things that could be wrong with the man: all the addictions, the sleep deprivation, the illnesses – everything that could cost him more than the race. And, yet…“Do you see the blonde, the way her hands shake?”

It was more than simple logic, but the strange certainty of the gambler. “I’d say she’ll get hurt before he does.”

“Shh…”

They waved their hand. A curse to the flies and the aristocrats, congregated at the races to spoil all the fun. Mallory was a black spot amongst the gaudy hats and colors, moving through the crowd with the swiftness of a cat. They knew exactly what they were looking for.

The riders were an amusing sight from a distance. Tiny little figures alike in many ways, a parade of colors and egos that would never fail to delight them. One had to come a little closer to see the cracks. A wiry young man with bloodshot eyes, a lovely young woman with white teeth and shaky hands, a multitude of little flaws in otherwise composed people preparing for an important moment. They wondered which of them luck would favor that day. But they were far more curious about who it would curse.

It didn’t take them long to spot the figure hovering nearby, grinning like a beast as soon as they felt their presence. A fellow gambler, perhaps, come to assess the odds.

“Well, they are...A bit less impressive than last year’s crop.”

Padre nostro, che sei nei cieli…

They tasted the words as they used to, hands clasped in front of them out of respect for a religion that had never truly been theirs. But their eyes were not closed. For Mallory’s mind was not in the heavens above nor the hell below, but stuck in a very particular, dark-haired head in front of them.

In that angle, she was Maria.

The thought stung, and it wasn’t a sort of pain Mallory liked to indulge. Death was a part of life, after all, and they shouldn’t have wasted their breath mourning a woman they had shared nothing with – a kindness shouldn’t have mattered so. It was they had told themselves when they first began to check on the child. And it what they told themselves as they walked towards her.

“Hello Maeve.”

They didn’t come too close, tilting their head to inspect the girl. Mallory had watched her before, of course, but the resemblance was even more striking up close, in the same light they had first seen Maria. They wondered whether all the blood would make her look more like her mother, or less. And although their face would have been unreadable to most, carved out of something harder than the saints that hovered above them, there was something unusual in Mallory’s expression. Uncertainty.

“I’m told you’ve made a choice.”

Act I, scene III

PRIDE

1. a high or inordinate opinion of one’s own dignity, importance, merit,or superiority, whether as cherished in the mind or as displayed inbearing, conduct, etc.

                             2. the state or feeling of being proud.

They found it difficult to believe that nothing interesting had happened during Mallory’s night, but they understood if they had wanted to tell Hea, they would’ve. As their sibling talked, they quieted themself out of reverence ( excluding the snicker when they were corrected ), but when they finished, Hea tsked, “Alice is but a child. My character of choice is undeniably the Cheshire cat. Quite apt, wouldn’t you say?’’ Their grin grew wider, almost vacuous, in an attempt to make themself appear more like the fictional animal. 

“Nevertheless,’’ they began, never taking their eyes from Mallory,  “you shouldn’t worry yourself with any troubles tonight, as your evening seems to be going so well. I took care of it.’’ Though less so than with others, Hea’s mysterious means occasionally seeped into their conversations with Mallory and Cinead without the speaker even knowing it. They saw no purpose in being so inscrutable with their siblings, so before the untimely death of poor Alvise, they had been attempting to alter it. Afterwards, however, it was seldom a priority.

They thought back to the last part of Mallory’s speaking, prompting their smile to twitch. They were seldom bothered with the hare, or the correction. Had it been anyone else, well…but Mallory and Cinead were their equals in everything. Excluding abstinence. The smell, evidently radiated by the glass in Mallory’s hand, seemed minor compared to how intense the odor had been earlier in the night. Though, by then, the eerie, cat-like grin had faded, its understated relative had made an appearance on Hea’s mien. They felt the urge to reveal to their sibling what lay trickling in their mind, but they kept their voice mute, if only for the sake of not stating the obvious; the thought only to be heard in Hea’s mind. If anyone is going to defy destiny, it’s us. We control it, after all.

They didn’t need a smile to find the resemblance. It was what they had first seen in their sibling, in those immemorial days of their childhoods when they were still meant to have been strangers: Hea was a cat amongst the pigeons. Mallory smiled back.

“Resorceful, you are.” There was hint of intrigue in their voice, but they were not worried. They would never have doubted Hea and their means. For all the occasional pestering they subjected their siblings to, the mysteries of the other witches were the only ones Mallory agreed to respect. And although one could never be too careful in a room full of killers, they were confident that things would go their way that night. Anything else would have been inadmissible. “I did always like the cat. And the hatter.”

With a languid gesture, Mallory abandoned the glass on the table. They were starting to feel a fragment of the joy and bloodthirst that came with alcohol, and wanted all their senses intact for the night. When they looked back to Hea, they found them wearing a smile anyone else would have called enigmatic. To Mallory, it was only comforting.

“I suppose your delay is forgiven, then.”

He had started pursuing the man - he’d thought of this person as a man the whole time, despite no real evidence for that - as soon as he had seen him leave. After that, it had been a game of cat and mouse. Staying out of eyesight, whilst making sure he didn’t lose him. He was almost the same speed as the absconder, and didn’t have too much trouble keeping up or keeping concealed. 

Clark was peering around a doorway when he heard heels, and turned to see Mallory striding towards him. Part of him was irritated - he had this under control - but he was also a little relieved - they would take over, take responsibility. And he didn’t want to be around if things got nasty again. He would rather the witch died than he did. Truth be told, he would rather almost anybody died than he did. 

When Mallory approached, they stood too close to him. To step away would be to accept defeat, however, so he took the nearness without complaint or show of discomfort. 

“Round this corner,” he told them in a low voice. “I think he’s going to sneak out of the fire escapes at the end of the Egyptian exhibit.” This was just a hunch, but Clark was good at hunches. They were what he did. “You need to lock this place down, Mallory, there’s no knowing if he’s still armed.” 

They narrowed their eyes, growing madder by the second. It may have chosen the fire escape, but it wouldn’t sneak out – Mallory would sooner throw it off the stairs. They’d do the same to him, if he got in the way.

“And how would you know?” In their rage, there was a hint of paranoia. The night had turned disastrous, a crime against everything they stood for. Clark Godrej reminded them of such a crime and no amount of logic could erase it. Mallory had a hard time standing close to the man without wanting a piece of his flesh against their teeth - he would not stand between them and their revenge.

“Not until it’s found.”

They knew when their siblings were close by – in fact, they were always probably aware of each other. It felt like a dull buzz in the back of their brain, a constant reminder that there were other people in the universe on their frequency. At times, it was comforting, a nice little way of knowing that they weren’t alone. However, it also served as a constant reminder that their siblings were always going to be in there head and like – that could be really annoying sometimes? Did they love Hea and Mallory more than anything else in the world? Of course. Did they like the constant reminder that they were never too far? Not all the damn time. 

Everything melted away when they turned to look at their sibling. Their brow arched at the news of a room needed a new mirror and they let a grin slip on their face, eyes knowing without needing any sort of explanation. “I’ll get a new one there by tomorrow.”

When they mentioned then need a decent drink, they found themselves nodding in agreement. They’d had something weak earlier, something that would make them want to get out of bed this morning. Now they needed something better, something actually made them feel something.  “Are you offering to grab a drink with me? If so I’m not opposed to the idea 

The reply brought a grin to their face. In a heartbeat, Mallory was leaning forward, a pair of restless eyes meeting Cinead’s. They’d need a bit of liquor to get through any conversation about the masquerade without smashing any more hotel property.

“Of course. The woman in 204 seems to be having a rather intense love affair with the new brandy they brought last week. Care to find out why?” They weren’t expecting the frivolities to erase the masquerade’s disaster from Cinead’s mind. It would have been unwise to forget. But they were hoping it brought them some kind of comfort, just as the presence of their sibling brought Mallory themselves. They had dreamt far too much of the murder, an thought far too much of the side they’d seen of themselves in Clark Godrej’s fallen body. “There’s also bottle of cheap vodka at the bar, if you’re feeling particularly decadent. But you’d have to indulge on your own, because I’d sooner drink acetone.”

They began to walk.

“A Capulet gun.  Should that point us in their direction, or the opposite one?” 

How dared someone defy their neutrality?