The Cursed, Pt. 3

The Cursed

Part 3

~x~

Dinner began without a word from either Celia or Irma. There were many chances for conversation — passing plates, sliding condiments. But they were just that: chances that came and then went.

Celia would have complained about the silence because of how nervous it usually made her, if what had happened before so wasn't the arrival of the head witch in request of her service.

Or life. Or blood. Or her heart in a bottle. The possible reasons were endless, and would only send Celia into a tizzy if she were to try and think them all up. She wasn't sure what the witches would want with a human — would want with her. She did indeed remember Lady Magdalene's elusive, "Because of who she is." She remembered it well and replayed it in her head about a dozen times over.

But what Celia didn't understand was why. No, the real reason. Whatever Lady Magdalene said, whatever she hinted at — her words just weren't enough.

More than anything, Celia wanted to ask her mother about Lady Magdalene and her vague words. Irma had to know something for her to have been so affected. It led Celia to the idea that her mother was keeping something from her. Something Celia thought her mother wasn't to keen to shine light on.

It also led Celia to the idea that perhaps there actually was something more to her than she believed. The thought, as dangerous and foolish as it might have been, only filled her something she could only describe as hope. A feeling that she knew well than to express in front of Irma, who sat before her stirring the soup with a concentrated expression on her face.

But she did end up breaking that silence, because silence for Celia was never a happy one: "Am I in danger?" She found it useless to act like she hadn't heard, especially when Lady Magdalene said goodbye to her in such an indiscreet manner. And afterward, Irma hadn't said anything about her listening in. Then again, afterward, Irma hadn't said anything at all.

Irma's motions paused at the question. Then she said, "You have nothing to fear."

"But that woman — she said they needed me for something," Celia continued, insistent. Despite her mother's words, she felt the fear from earlier creep inside of her. "What would stop them from coming after me when you're not looking?"

"They wouldn't," Irma said. Her eyes met Celia's, a mirror version of hers: stark blue. But opposite of hers: harsh. "If you had paid attention to what I told that witch," she said, almost spitting the word, "then you would have heard me tell her doing such a thing would only worsen their reputation here."

And their reputation, Celia muddled over thoughtfully, was not one to envy. Forty-eight days and no one hadn't invited them for any sort of welcoming party or anything. None of the traditional welcoming dinners to welcome new settlers. No formal hello or tour around the settlement.

Nothing.

They just came. And everyone looked away.

"They may not look it," Irma continued, "but those witches want to live in peace, as under the radar as possible. They do. However unlikely that is," she ended in a dry tone.

Still unsettled, Celia asked, "But what if they're more afraid of this caster than the High King himself? Why would she come here and risk her freedom if it wasn't important? They obviously don't care too much for peace after Cal Drigs." Celia hated the pleading tone in her voice, but she couldn't help it.

Irma wrinkled her nose. "You know Cal Drigs's case, Celia. Cal Drigs was nothing but a mad criminal. And with all the troubles he's caused, he's lucky to be alive. Better free in another form than to die on the streets."

Was. As if Cal Drigs was no more when he was somewhere in Terran or beyond barking after intruders and nibbling away at treats. Celia felt sick thinking of the hypocrisy of her fellow settlers. How they could turn away from someone in need simply because of what he did. Yes, he was a criminal, but he was also like them: human. It was not fair to stay silent, and sometimes Celia felt like going to the Chancellor's house herself and asking for something to be done about the situation. She knew, though, that her mother would disapprove, calling her actions unnecessary and overstepping her limits. Celia didn't mind the witches' presence, but she did mind the havoc they brought with them.

Perhaps it was the fear that terror would strike if others protested that zipped everyone's lips shut about the situation. But still.

Strangely, though, when Celia watched those eleven witches walk in a group, she didn't see the terror-striking cult like everyone else. She saw togetherness. Unity. Something she wished was universal in Terran among all groups of people. Maybe then the Cal Drigs situation would have reversed itself.

She remembered Noelle saying that they were in their own bubble in Terran. Moments like this made Celia wish she could pluck a needle into this bubble. Maybe then the suffocating feeling inside her would go away. Of course, though, she would never admit this. Not to Irma. Any talk of traveling to the mystical settlements of Ontamro or Lelleral would offer Celia nothing but an hour long scolding.

You wouldn't make it.

There's nothing there for you.

Stay with Mother. It will be good for you.

"The ball tonight," Irma suddenly said, gratefully interrupting Celia's thoughts and refocusing Celia's eyes on her mother. "Are you going?"

Celia's fingers around the spoon flexed just as her gaze dropped to the soup in front of her. She didn't consider going to the Primefrost ball before, and after that meeting, she couldn't imagine setting foot outside the house. She'd be on the constant lookout for any possible followers. Anything that may threaten her safety.

And if there were any possible threats, what would Celia Pembroke do to protect herself? More specifically, what would Celia Pembroke be able to do to protect herself from magic? She was no Willow Halfmoon, who struck her enemies down with one icy stare.

To Celia, the answer was simple: Celia Pembroke would die.

Perhaps the turmoil inside her displayed some outward responses, because, in a steady voice, Irma suddenly said, "You are not in danger."

The words forced Celia out of her thoughts once more, and settled her attention on her mother. You are not in danger. She wanted to trust her words. She wanted to trust her mother. But then, bits of the conversation between her mother and the witch fleeted to her mind, specifically the parts where Lady Magdalene insinuated that Irma knew something. And Celia's trust wavered slightly.

"You have questions," Irma said, her eyes were filled with, to Celia's surprise, understanding, "about what you heard. And they are very important questions — questions I will answer." Irma briefly looked away, and Celia could see the movement of her throat as she swallowed. "When I am ready."

Celia couldn't control the negative thoughts as she said, "But what if I'm dead when you're ready?"

Irma's form seemed to have frozen, and Celia wondered what else she could say to defrost her mother, until Irma's chin lifted. "You won't be. Trust your mother." She leaned forward in her seat and said, "You are not in danger. Go to this party. You are safe." Celia almost expected a For now but it never came, and whether she was grateful for hearing it or not, she wasn't sure.

Celia stared. Her mother was asking her to trust her. She would try to.

With a nod, Celia continued her meal, settling with the silence that followed. She would not make complaints.

After dinner, she headed to her room and sat at her window seat, but not before marking a tally on her wall. Her head felt heavy with thoughts, and she didn't know what would help relieve it of so; not until her eyes fixed on the Duchess, lying in the window seat with her bow placed neatly next to her. Then Celia's heart hammered away with hope, and she couldn't have picked up her violin fast enough.

It was a nice feeling, Celia thought, to hold such a treasured item in her hands. To play such a treasured item in hands. She met the Duchess when she was but a child and during one of her explorations of the house: in the attic. She was unsure of it and unaware of who it belonged to. There was no name on it. Only the letter L was carved into its side, which, to Celia, could have stood for anything at all.

When she'd bounded down the stairs with the violin clutched to her chest and asked Irma for it, she'd noticed a conflicting expression pass over Irma's face before that impenetrable mask reappeared. Celia felt her heart sink when Irma let out an indifferent no and when Irma reached her hand out, almost to snatch the violin from Celia's hands, she'd stopped. She only retreated her hand as if suddenly changing her mind.

"You may keep it," Irma had said, turning away, making it harder Celia to check the congruency between her verbal and nonverbal, "but I will pay no lessons for your learning."

So Celia taught herself with the generous help of Mathias's father Geraldo, who owned a small music shop. Irma seemed to not have minded this help since no coin had come out of her pocket for it.

After years of regular practice, with tired arms and a discomforted neck, she did learn in the end. And it was all that hard work that made her so much more appreciate of the music flying off the Duchess's strings.

With a deep breath, Celia positioned herself in front of her music stand, which showcased one of the many music sheets she'd found along with her Duchess. All marked with the letter L. They were original songs, songs she'd never heard played at any ball or event. They were filled from top to bottom with music notes and actual notes. Celia was in awe at how they were all written with such preciseness — a touch of elegance graced them all.

And when she would play these notes, breathing life into them, turning it into sweet music — Celia couldn't help but feel connected to it. Though she did treasure this connection, she did feel a sort of strangeness toward the sensation. That was because she didn't know why there was even a connection in the first place.

At first, she used to busy herself with questions and even pestered Irma with questions — to which she received no answers to. But she stopped when the questions became vaguer and the answers very rarely came.

She decided to just accept it. Just like how she decided to accept trusting her mother's reassuring words.

Briefly closing her eyes, Celia then began to saw away with her bow: the notes flying off her strings. She would chase away those dark thoughts with her music. She played, but she didn't know for how long, only stopping when she heard a bell sound not more than three times.

At first, Celia thought she could ignore it, but when her music started to lose its sweetness, she stopped. She lowered her instrument just as Noelle appeared in the doorway of her bedroom with bags in both hands and a smile. Celia knew that smile well; it was the smile Noelle wore whenever there was trouble near.

And as Celia watched Noelle empty the bags over her bed, she realized just what kind of trouble it was.

"Sorry to interrupt," Noelle said by way of greeting, lifting one of the gowns from the bed. "Your playing was as lovely as ever. I would love to hear the rest of it, but the clock is ticking."

Celia smiled a small smile before settling her Duchess back in its spot. She asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Don't be silly, Celia. You know why." Noelle drew the blue gown to her figure and examining herself in the mirror. "Lovely, isn't it? Mother was about to throw all these dresses out when she realized no one was buying them, but I told her that we'd make good use of them. I'm in love with this shade of blue." She turned to Celia, leaning her head toward her as if she were sharing another one of her secrets. "Mother would think I'm too typical wearing this to a Primefrost ball, but I happen to think it'd quite fitting considering my hair color."

Celia did understand Noelle's mother's comments about Noelle's supposed being too typical. At Primefrost balls, girls were often garbed in all shades of blue with few exceptions here and there. A green dress would be ogled at all night, but a blue one would be passed over just as easily. But Celia couldn't disagree with Noelle. The obvious was before her: the soft blue seemed to do wonders bringing out the gold of Noelle's hair.

The other fabrics caught Celia's eye, and she moved to touch them. There were about half a dozen ball gowns, all dazzling in their own way. Her eyes and hands ran over every sequin, every pearl; every ruffle, every ribbon. Then she retreated her hand almost as if she'd burned it.

She straightened her back and faced Noelle, who was twirling in front of the mirror. "I don't plan to go tonight."

Noelle stopped. "You don't plan to go, but you see, that's the funny thing about plans. They can change at any moment."

In a tired voice, Celia said, "Noelle."

Noelle's grip on the dress loosened, its proof being so when the dress began to limp forward from her body. "But," she said, "why don't you want to go? You said you didn't feel like it, and also because of your mother's meeting with that guest, but it looks like that has been wrapped up a while ago." Noelle took a step toward Celia and pensively asked, "Hasn't it?"

Her mother's meeting. With Lady Magdalene. A shiver ran through Celia's spine and she hoped Noelle didn't notice or ask just how that meeting went or what was discussed or just anything about it.

It was not like she could simply tell Noelle what had occurred. She couldn't tell her that what that guest expected from that meeting was her.

She still had a hard time believing it.

"It has," Celia confirmed, with a shaky voice that she also hoped Noelle didn't notice.

"And before the ball even starts." Noelle gestured to the clock on the wall. The hands read seven o'clock. "We have an hour or so to get dressed. Please come, Celia. We won't even have to dress up. We can go as ourselves. I just can't go alone and be stuck with Mathias and his Willows all night."

Celia imagined it: a grumbling Noelle surrounded by Mathias in his Nicholas Cloud get-up and Willows of all shapes and sizes around him reciting stale love lines. Celia couldn't help but feel bad. She herself wouldn't be happy in such a predicament, but she still felt unsure of going.

Unbidden, her mother's voice then entered her mind: You are not in danger. She also heard something hidden in those words: Trust me.

Trust her. She said she would trust her mother, didn't she? She wasn't in danger. Even if it was just for now, she wasn't in danger.

After briefly closing her eyes, Celia said, "All right." She lifted a finger. "But the next time I say I don't want to go, I want you to take my words seriously."

Noelle nodded in a solemn manner. "And seriously I shall take it." Then that smile that spelled trouble burst onto her face.

AN: Yay, part 3 has been edited -- though I'm sure more work needs to be done. Criticism of any kind is welcome. Good or bad. I will very much appreciate the feedback. Thank you to anyone who reads