Young Writers Society

Author's Note: I wrote this rather late at night, and also revised it rather late at night, so please forgive any super obvious typos + mistakes. 

Jo finds Oscar sitting at the base of the mayor’s porch, whittling at a small wooden block, and whistling awfully off-key. Engrossed, he doesn’t spot her until she is sat on the steps beside him.

“A success?” he asks.

Jo considers before answering, gently smoothing the folds of her skirt. “Yes, of a sort. We got our guide. We leave in two days, before sunrise.”

“How is the Peterson family holding up?”

“Poorly,” Jo responds, “I had wondered where all this smoke stemmed from; I’ve gotten my answer.”

Oscar winces, “And Ms. Miriam? Was Susanne the niece she was going to see?”

“I didn’t speak with her. Ms. Angelique wouldn’t allow me inside the house.”

“Huh,” Oscar hums, shaving wood absently from his sculpture as he thinks.

“That is odd, isn’t it?” Jo continues, frowning, “What was she trying to hide?”

“Probably nothing. I imagine that the Peterson’s are mourning the loss of a daughter. Some family’s are very private about such affairs.”

Jo’s scowl deepens, she can feel the lines forming between her brows. She rests her chin against the heel of her hand and watches the silhouettes of thrush arc across the smoke-clouded sky. “Well, Angelique believes that the Peterson girl is still alive. It’s why she agreed to go with us.”

Her frown has infected Oscar, but his is the more sympathetic variety. “What leads her to think that?”

Jo doesn’t curse; but she releases an exasperated sigh that could easily take the place of one. “I don’t know. She refused to elaborate. But all that matters is that we’ve got our guide, and we’ve got our supplies. The only thing left is to get up that mountain.”

“And kill a dragon,” Oscar adds helpfully. “And also, possibly, save the Peterson kid.” He muses.

She sighs and shakes her head. “Possibly,” The word tastes bitter on her tongue. A lie, no matter how well intended, always does.

“By the way,” Oscar says abruptly, “someone has come calling for you. The duke, what’s-his-name?”

“Oh no,” groans Jo.

“Good gods,” he startles, “What have you done?”

She stretches as she stands to her feet. “Kind of you to assume I’m the one at fault. I only turned down an invitation to his estate.”

It is Oscars turn to scowl, an expression that does not suit him very well. “Why do you insist upon insulting the aristocracy in every place we visit?”

“My job isn’t to play teatime with the pompous old folks who cling to their dwindling power and wealth, like little children hold fast to their teddies. Besides, more often than not, they just get in the way of things.”

“The further we are from Sol, the less and less that’s the case. Surely you’ve noticed this. Besides, you work for the Queen.”

Jo wrinkles her nose, “Are you claiming I’m a hypocrite?” she folds her arms, saying stoutly, “Her only jurisdiction is the practice of magic. And even that is checked by the likes of court-appointed scribes, like you.”

“And you don’t think that’s still too much privilege for an unelected official to hold?” he asks.

Jo scoffs. “We aren’t having this debate again, Oscar. Is Duke Mons inside?”

Oscar rolls his eyes, and that marks the end of that. “Kelsey has been keeping him entertained,” he says. “They’re waiting for you in Fitzgerald’s office.”

-

Barnes Fitzgerald’s office is an apt summary of the man himself. Disorganized, chalk full of glittery old knick-knacks, and a bookshelf barren of books. The room itself is not unpleasant; plush carpet squishes beneath Jo’s feet, and the walls are lined with paper spun of sugar. But the room smells of dust bunnies, and she can only assume that the man waiting for her there stinks worse of corruption.

Darion Mons is a young man. Much younger than Jo thought, and certainly not older than herself. Twenty two, she thinks.

He’s thin, with hair the color of straw and perfect teeth that he bares in an overlarge smile as Jo walks into the room. He wears the nicest suit Jo has seen since she boarded the train to Monsbury. It’s an ebony black that stands out as starkly as fresh words on a page, and his shoes too, are as glossy as an inkpot.

Kelsey stands behind Fitzgerald’s desk, almost using it as a barricade between herself and the rooms other inhabitant. Relief floods her face when she sees Jo.

“Duke Mons, this is Doctor Josephina Gundry. She’s the Magic Practitioner from Sol.” She says, all in one breath. “I’ll go fetch you two some tea.”

Having put a voice to this inelegant excuse, she darts around the desk, past Jo, and out the door. Duke Mons watches her go, smile still bared.

“I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Duke Mons.” Jo folds her hands carefully in front of her, “I will do everything in my power to kill the dragon, and to set things right in Monsbury, and the lands that surround it.”

The room stays silent. Long enough that Jo prepares another series of words to sharpen, but not long enough for her to wield them. The duke’s smile broadens.

“And that’s why you denied my request for audience, yes?”

“It was not meant as a slight. I’m sorry if it was taken so,”

“Oh, no, no, no. Nothing of the sort, Ms.” Duke Mons strides over to the mayors desk, and takes the overlarge chair. He extends his hand toward the seat opposite it. Unperturbed when Jo remains unmoving, he continues, “I only had an offer for you. One I think you’ll like.” When she says nothing, he continues, “The affairs of my people concern me, as much as they concern Barnes. Whether they are on the eastern side of town, or mine. I would like to provide you with additional supplies and resources. Your companion has informed me that you procured some from one of my townsfolk, but you can never be too prepared when intending to scale King Mountain.”

“Oh,” says Jo, genuinely surprised. “That’s… very generous of you.”

“Really?” The duke says, pleased, “Why, it’s what anyone would- should- do.”

“A generous spirit is not a trait I have noted in most aristocrats. Your willingness to help speaks greatly to your character,” Jo hopes she isn’t laying it on too thick, privately wishing that Oscar was here instead of her. But Darion Mons smiles from ear to ear.

“I am very happy to hear that you will not protest to me and my men joining you on your quest,” he says.

Jo’s brain grinds to a halt, like a train stalling on tracks. “Pardon that?”

“You will need a guide up the mountain, no? Outsiders traipsing up King Mountain alone rarely fairs well, as the locals are quick to inform you.”

“Yes, but,” Jo reaches to pinch the bridge of her nose, before catching herself. His leap in logic so sudden, she feels she flails about like a whale knocked ashore. “Your vassal,” she grasps, “Angelique Peterson. She has already agreed to the task.”

Darrion Mons dismisses this with a flick of his wrist, “Peterson, pshaw.” He says with contempt, “You don’t want her help. She’s been very unstable since her kid sister died.”

“The one who went missing a few days ago?”

“That’s the ticket!” He still wears a wide grin, one that stretches the corners of his face and turns it into something almost unearthly. His smile is a mask, like Barnes- but where the mayor conceals his overabundance of fear, the duke can’t quite bite back his monstrous arrogance.

Jo takes a step back. “Your offer for supplies is kind. However, there is no need for you to leave your estate unattended. We are likely to be gone for a long time.”

“My darling wife is equipped to handle any eventualities that will occur during my absence,” he is quick to reassure.

Jo grits her teeth and thinks about what Oscar would do. She proceeds to do the opposite, “Your offer of help is appreciated but not accepted. We do not need your entire militia acting as fodder for the dragon, and they will only slow us down. The Queen of Sol sent me to do a job that I am very capable of doing without your interference, thank you.”

The smile vanishes from the duke’s face. It does not fade, it does not slide, and it does not falter; it is simply gone. And out unfolds a tantrum, “It is all or nothing, I’m afraid,” he spits, “if you will not have me with you, then you will not have my aide at all.”

“That sounds quite alright to me,” Jo musters a smile of her own, “I’m very glad we could come to an agreement.”