The Cursed, Pt. 4.1

The Cursed

Part 4.1

~x~

A plate fell to the floor, splintering into several glittering pieces.

Irma Pembroke's eyes narrowed in annoyance, snapping her out of her thoughts. Her stupid thoughts. They were taking over her mind, and they were doing her no good, turning her into this woman who dropped four dishes in one hour.

Her mind was elsewhere, and she didn't like it. She wasn't used to feeling this way: unsure of herself, unsure of others. She was used to being confident and aware; to having command and order.

She would not deny that Lady Magdalene's show earlier did nothing but make her feel out of control. Sure, Irma had put enough of a good show to show indifference, but it was just that: a show. To ease herself or knock the triumphant look off of Lady Magdalene's face, she wasn't sure. She aimed for both, but she felt like she failed at both. And while Irma was bitter about it, she would not lie to herself about it.

A laugh broke out somewhere in the house, and Irma looked toward the stairs. She briefly wondered if her daughter would appear at hearing the crashes, but then she remembered the dressmaker's girl bustling in there earlier with bags upon bags. Yes, Celia would be in her room for some time.

Or it could be because she was simply avoiding Irma. The thought stung but Irma had to consider it. Perhaps Celia's seeming compliance earlier was a show of her own, learning from the best show runner around: her mother.

Celia's "Am I in danger?" taunted her now, louder and louder in her mind. She had every right to ask it, but still it did nothing but unnerve Irma — when Celia first asked it, and even hours later, when she was well in her room. The questions, the hints of doubt, the worrisome edge in Celia's voice — they all tore at Irma piece by piece until she became what she was now: a scatter-brained woman with slippery hands.

But while she was this unfortunate version of herself, she was no liar. Irma really had meant what she said to Celia. That she wasn't in danger of the witches. At least, not any time soon. Irma knew her threat of reporting Lady Magdalene to the Chancellor had she went through with her plans was enough to simmer down any immediate doings.

Still, Lady Magdalene's words rang high in her head. We want your girl. Irma could not say she didn't expect something like this. She could not say she didn't expect someone looking for Celia. Her naive Celia. She thought she would have more time. More to time to gust up the courage to contact him.

Irma reached behind her for the counter, gripping its edge tightly. She was trying to be normal with her thoughts, with herself. Stay steady, stay Irma, she chanted internally. She repeated this multiple times until she drew in a deep breath, focusing on the moment. On the now.

Right now, Celia was safe. Right now, Irma had time.

With her bare hands, Irma reached down to pick the pieces up, uncaring of whether or not she would get a cut or two.

We want your girl.

A sharp feeling met her finger, but Irma ignored it — just as she ignored the small trickle of blood — and continued to collect the sharp pieces.

We want your girl.

Irma gritted her teeth as she collected. That Lady Magdalene was toying with the wrong woman. It was true that, while Irma was without a single trace of magic and Lady Magdalene was magic in her every being, a match between the two would not end in Irma's favor.

But in Terran, Irma had something the oh-so magical Lady Magdalene did not have: high status. And while high status often would do no good in a physical match, it was the obvious win in a match of wits, of true power. Irma's connections with the higher officials of the settlement, and even beyond, would no doubt be enough to rouse those witches out of Terran and onto settlements that actually were in favor of their kind. That was only if they proved themselves to be a threat — and in the beginning, they even fooled her into believing their business here involved no hidden agenda.

We want your girl.

Until today.

In a sudden motion, Irma stood, her hands cradling the glass pieces. Her whole body felt rigid with anger. Those witches definitely had an agenda, an agenda that concerned Celia. Dead or alive —

Her chest began to feel tight, and Irma resisted the urge to crush her fists, which would send them into a bloody mess.

How dare they. How dare they come here and demand things — people — handed to them. "Damned witches," she hissed, and then hissed it again, this time louder, before flinging the sharp pieces back onto the ground. She watched as they skirted across the ground, arranging themselves into a random array of pieces: some tinged with blood, others with sharp points, few without jagged edges.

To her, it just looked like a mess. A mess that needed cleaning, a mess that needed to be undone.

But to him, Irma knew, mildly confused over the sudden thought of him, it would look like art.

~x~

AN: So it's been a long time since... yeah. I've been swamped with a lot going in my life, but things have calmed. Also, writing this part was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I won't go into the exact specifics of why here, but... man. I don't know what to think of it yet. My brain is fried. I promise the next part will not take as long as this one did. It's already finished; just some quick tweaking. Feel free to leave criticism -- good or bad, I appreciate it. I know there's lots of errors that I didn't catch. Thank you to anyone who reads/reviews! -comrie EDIT: I removed half of the original post because I felt like things were moving too fast. I'm going to post the other half in another separate post sometime soon.