"What, exactly, are you doing here?"

"That's what I should be asking?"

 

 

The stairs creaked beneath me as Arthur and I ascended towards his home. Arthur took the steps quickly— leaping up two at a time. Something he always did. At the top of the stairs, he’d turn and wait for me, a small smile on his face. I took the steps slower— one at a time, since each step varied and creaked. While we walked, my mind wandered.

Unlike me, Arthur didn’t like in a grand, isolated estate in the upper reaches of the city. He had never experienced being surrounded by silence at nearly all hours of the day— your only companion the creaking of the floorboards, the scuffle of your feet along carpet, the muted whispers of your servants, the hushed hiss of books sliding back into place, the creaking floorboards, or the coldness of the marble tiling. I— conversely— never lost sleep over a rambunctious neighbor, nor had to live with a dreary view of endless, sun-bleached and watery brick. Simply, I mournfully noted, I dealt with a malevolent shade who only wanted the worst for me. So clearly, it’s easy to see who got the better deal.

Distantly, through thin walls and doors cracked open, I could hear other residents; muttered evening prayers thanking Yarhibol and Sachiel for food and good fortune; families and gatherings clomping and stomping, causing the floorboards to creak and groan; the people who lived under them yelling; a muffled apology back; arguments between people I couldn’t and didn’t want to decipher.

Light danced under some doors, shadows slept silently under others. Some doors were open, guarding darkened interiors. Some were open, partially cracked as to let out the smell of cooking food. Others were fully open, revealing homely living spaces that were most likely occupied, their residents just around the corner and out of view.

Everything here served to remind me of how differently I lived. It made me feel lonely, despite the fact I was walking to have dinner with my best friend and his mother.

“So— uh,” Arthur started, turning to face me on the landing above me, “was the thing earlier really about Clara?”

I swallowed down a wincing sigh, my eyes still scanning the floorboards beneath me— like most buildings in Tisali, the stairs were uneven; taller than others, shorter than some, and rarely the same width. I silently cursed whoever had decided to design the stairs this way, and Arthur, since he showed little to no sign of being bothered by it. 

Most likely since it’s his own home. 

“She’s not that bad,” I responded evenly. 

“… but bad enough to cause…”

“I don’t actually hate her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh… uh…”

I stepped around him on the landing, eyes still downcast to watch my step. I continued, before he could realize I was evading.  “Eigenlicht is good at what she does— that is, fighting. Her Expression lends itself well to just about anything you can think of, and she has the ability to properly utilize it. She’s competent…”

“But…?”

“I find her attitude a little annoying, but I’ve dealt with worse.”

“I mean—“ I didn’t have to see Arthur’s face to know  “— Clara has her own reasons for doing what she does.”

“I know that, which is why it’s immensely difficult for me to properly hate her.”

“… Elle.” His tone was disapproving.

“Sorry, sorry.” 

The door to Arthur’s residence slid into view, and the both of us let the conversation die. I stopped and stepped aside. Arthur came to a stop besides me, a funny grin back on his face as he raised his hand but let it stop before the door.

“Okay— Elle,” Arthur said, having fallen back into our usual pattern, “should we knock this time, or just open the door?”

“Knock,” I murmured, “and surprise your mother when she comes to greet us? Just be normal and open the door like you usually do— what if she’s in the middle of someth—”

The door suddenly opened, and Arthur’s mother stood on the other side.

Maple was dressed in a plain, brown and heavy skirt that ruffled along her ankles, a long-sleeved blouse, and had her long, brown hair pulled into a ponytail that draped over her shoulder. A warm smile broke across her aged face, and her eyes crinkled as she pulled Arthur and I into a hug. 

“Oh— you two are back! Right on time—” she chattered, stepping back to allow us into the apartment. “We’re just about to have dinner. Oh! I hope neither of you mind— I invited one of our new neighbors to join us— I think you’ll really like her— she’s even the same age as you two! And she’s so polite! I heard she attends Belfaust too!”

I glanced towards Arthur, who looked as confused as I felt. I replied, “Of course, Miss Maple. As always, thank you for the invitation.”

“Oh,“ Arthur’s mother laughed, waving away my formality, “as I’ve told you before, dear, you don’t have to be so formal with me, just Maple is fine!”

Arthur spoke up, “Uhm— mom, can I ask—“

“Okay! Okay, you two stay here— I’ll go get her!” Maple motioned for us to stand still, before dipping out of sight around a corner. Distantly, I could make out some whispering, among the sound of something boiling.

After a moment, I bumped my shoulder into Arthur’s, muttering, “Who…?”

His whispering was restrained, his eyes locked to the doorway to the kitchen his mother had vanished around. “I was really hoping you would know.”

“… Why would I know?” I shot him a look. “Do you know how many friends I have?”

“More than a couple, right?”

“… I appreciate the confidence, Arthur. I have no idea who this would be.”

“Well,” he quickly muttered back, “could you guess? Same age as us— polite— and attends Belfaust…”

“Do you understand precisely how little that narrows it down?” I whispered back, imminently aware that we were about to find out.

“I—“ 

The two of us snapped back to attention, killing our conversation and adopting pleasant smiles as someone— my thoughts stuttered to a halt. 

Stepping around the kitchen’s doorframe and into our view, holding a red pot in her mittened hands, rolled up sleeves, dark pants, and well-maintained combat boots, lacking her furred, maroon cloak, and with her chestnut hair pulled into a high, bouncy ponytail— was Clara.

Consequently, as Clara turned the corner to greet the two of us, the pleasant smile on her face froze— then shifted into a faint expression of shock. Then, she tripped over her own heel.

Everything that followed was a blur:

Clara tipped forward, the steaming red pot pitching forward— Arthur cried out, stepping forward as if about to catch her or the pot, a look growing panic on his face. Instinct drew me a step back, out of range of the spilling— boiling— soup. Clara’s attention tore back to the pot she was currently dropping, and stumbled forward as if to attempt to catch it or herself— she failed, and Arthur was too late, and she sprawled across the floor as the pot smashed and shattered across the ground. Arthur froze, still halfway to trying to catch Clara— probably uncertain if he should continue helping now that he’d failed in what he attempted to do. I blinked, taking another step away and around the slowly growing pool of spilled soup. Clara grunted, quietly wincing as she carefully stumbled to her feet. 

After a heartbeat, Maple rounded the corner, a concerned frown on her face. “What’s wr— Oh! Oh no, Clara— are you alright?” She crouched beside Clara, blinking repeatedly, before suddenly standing and rushing away. “Okay! Clara— dear, stay right there— I’ll go get a change of clothes for you to get into!”

My mind finally caught up, in time to catch Clara shoot the two of us another distressed glance. At some point, Arthur had stepped away and come back with some rags. After a moment, the two of us joined Clara on the ground cleaning up the soup. 

Clara broke our small relief of silence first, practically hissing: “What are the two of you doing here?”

“That’s our question,” I snapped back. 

Arthur cut in, “Clara—“

“What— what are your relations to that woman?” Clara pressed.

“Clara— “

I cut in, scowling. “That woman— is his mother, Eigenlicht.”

Clara’s face blanked, and she blinked. Once, twice. Beside me, Arthur quietly sighed. “Oh,” she said, like it was a simple fact, sounding very much like it wasn’t. “I see.”

“So,“ I pressed, “what is your business here?” 

Clara scowled, indignant. “What are you insinuating, Laurent— that I tracked the two of you here?”

I returned the scowl with my own. “I don’t know you well enough to put it past you.”

Arthur sounded bewildered beside us. “Elle! Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes.” Clara clicked her tongue. “Quite. What you’re suggesting is outlandish.”

“Then correct me.”

Clara clicked her tongue again, before huffing out a sigh. “Let me first establish that I had no idea that you lived here, Arthur.” She turned to me. “I just moved in. She never told me her last name— or the fact that the people coming over to have dinner with her was you two.” 

“You moved in?” Arthur asked. 

She exhaled, rolling her eyes. “Yeah— just below you.” 

“Ah…”

I opened my mouth, about to ask another question, before Maple returned, and immediately, the three of us snapped back to pleasant politeness. Clara’s frown slid off her face, I pulled my scowl into something resembling reassurance, and Arthur looked increasingly concerned. Soon, Clara thanked Maple, who was apologetic that some of the clothes might not fit, much to Clara’s polite reassurance that it was perfectly alright. Arthur’s mother then turned to us, kneeling down to help us clean up the mess as she initiated some small talk into Arthur’s distressed expression. 

After a tense talk that bordered on disaster, where we assured her that Clara was simply shocked, and yes, us too, since we’d had no idea that we’d see her here, since, yes, we’d met her— in fact, the two of us were wonderful friends with her— yes, yes, even me, Miss Maple, she’s very skilled and respected by Professor Talon— and no I didn’t share any courses with her, but we bonded over our mutual love for intellectual debate— we certainly did not meet under less than fortunate circumstances where the three of us had been kidnapped and very nearly murdered, no.

We didn’t say that last bit, but my mind echoed it with each question.

Eventually, we tossed the rags into a basket, the shards of the red pot into the bin, and mopped the spot of floor that the soup had spilled over. Clara came back, dressed in a dark skirt and a button-down that she’d rolled the sleeves up on. She apologized again, and after some more pleasantries— Arthur and Clara got sent off to redo the dish— since the Bell’s kitchenette was far too small to accommodate four people— and I was taken aside by Maple to look at a malfunctioning artifact.

“It stopped working a little while ago…” Maple trailed off, wringing her hands. “I’m so sorry to ask you, but…”

I stared down, turning the pale watering can in my hand. I gave her what I hoped to be a reassuring smile. “It’s perfectly alright, Miss Maple, I’m certain it’s no fault of your own.”

Adjusting my glasses, I looked down into the watering can. There was no water— which was strange, considering the fact that the watering can had been made to be self-filling— so that she didn’t have use more water than was needed to water her huge assortment of plants. It’d been a gift I’d given her when I was younger, right after…

I blinked, and my eyes flickered to the walls; rows of framed photographs, each taken annually. The pose was always the same; Maple stood off to one side, a reassuring hand on Arthur’s shoulder, who took center frame. They both smiled brightly, even after the photos stopped holding the man who mirrored Maple behind their son. Eventually, the photos went on to include me, and Maple took up the center behind us. They still smiled, even with my frowning visage in each photo.

I shook my head, blinking away the feeling. Regardless, the watering can shouldn’t have stopped working, as it was simplistic as to be nearly impossible to mess up its creation— though, if Maple was asking me to fix it— then clearly I must’ve made some kind of mistake.

Fishing my cut of False Philosopher’s stone from my pocket, I briefly hesitated— reminders of the doctor’s orders not to cast echoed in my mind— before I separated the bottom of the can from the rest of it, turning the can upside down to the light so I could examine the rune-work on the inside closer. The beginnings of a headache began forming behind my eyes.

After a short time, I found the issue: algae had grown alongside the runes, clogging them up— which, while wasn’t normally a problem for runes, became an issue when they were as gently embedded as I had done. “Well— I was correct, Miss Maple, the problem was a flaw in the runes. I can fix it— I’ll just need to scrape off the algae and redo the runes, which will only take a little bit of time.”

“Oh,” Maple let out a relieved sound, laughing. “Thank the Angels— I thought I’d broken your gift— how embarrassing would that have been…”

I returned the smile, before turning my attention back to the watering can. Automatically, I drew my wand from my sleeve, only to pause.

No casting, the order echoed in my head, and the pressure behind my eyes ached, as if agreeing that the week of rest hadn’t been enough to restore anything significant to my reservoir. As if reacting to my hesitance, the Vitrine crystals in my bag pulsed from where it sat near the door. I swallowed, pursing my lips.

“Elle?” Across from me, Maple tilted her head. “Is everything alright?”

“I— huh?” I blinked. “Yes— yes. I’m simply tired, is all.”

Her expression told me that she blatantly did not believe me, but understood enough to not push me on it. After some time, through which I pointedly continued staring down at the watering can, unable to meet her expression, she stood and walked around the table. After a moment, she slowly pulled me into a hug, and I stiffened.

“As long as you remember that I’ll always be here to support you for whatever you need,” Maple muttered, planting a kiss on my head. My eyes found the photos again; Arthur and I standing beside one another with Maple behind us, as if we were all family. A pang of guilt shot through my heart. Miss Maple, despite everything, could not and would never truly replace my actual mother. Maybe, if I’d been just another girl and not the next-in-line to standing beside the Empress, it would’ve been a lie I could’ve escaped with.

Doesn’t she deserve better? 

I eked out: “… whatever?”

“Anything.”

“Even if—“

Even if I killed someone? 

“Anything,” she said again, firmer.

“I…” I swallowed, my mind slowly wading through everything I wanted to say— before realizing just about all of it were things I couldn’t say. A part of me argued, that Maple would understand— that she’d take pity, that she’d come up with some perfectly rational way to address my feelings. Somehow, that possibility felt worse than the alternative.

Maple remained silent, letting me rifle through my thoughts. Distantly, I registered the Vitrine crystals sitting beside the door— the unprecedented amount of danger I’d invited into her home. Disgust prickled in my throat and I swallowed my words.

“Just remember that whatever’s bothering you, the most important thing is to take that first step forward.” 

I had nothing to say to that, and in the end, I stayed silent, all too aware of everything I couldn’t say, gently leaning into Arthur’s mother. Some time later, she released me, smoothing her skirt before her smile returned to her face. 

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“I— thank you, Miss Maple.”

She gave me a small smile, before turning to leave.

I adjusted my glasses again, forcefully relaxed my hands, and turned my focus back towards the watering can. My mental list of distractions shelved the conversation, stowed away my anxiety, and helpfully added the headache-inducing work I had to do: remove the algae, erase the runes, inscribe the runes again, add a rudimentary environmental-regulating array, then reattach the bottom. 

Then, my Shade’s voice prompted, what's next? 

Dinner, I smoothly responded, shoving the worry away.

 

[][][]

 

Some time later, Clara stepped around the corner to address Maple, who’d, after seeing that Arthur and Clara didn’t need her help, busied herself with cleaning. I couldn’t tell what exactly she was cleaning— the counters and draws and floors were spotless, as far as I could tell. 

“We’re uh,” Clara said, shooting me an apologetic look, “missing some ingredients, actually, so we can’t finish the soup…”

“Oh! Uhm— hold on, show me— what are we missing?” Maple followed Clara out of sight. After a minute, she called out, walking back towards the door, “Dears— I’m going to step out for a moment to pick up what we need.”

Clara called back: “Would you like help, Miss?” 

Arthur bounded out a heartbeat later, before she could respond. “Oh— Mom, I’ll come with, so I can help carry stuff!”

“Oh— that’d be wonderful, though I’ll need one of you to come with me,” Maple said.

Immediately, Arthur chimed again, “I’ll do it! I even have my coat already!”

Maple cocked her head a small amount, confused, but too kind to say anything, as Arthur slowly urged the two of them out the door. Before they left, Arthur shot me a glance, winked, and then shot another deliberate glance towards the kitchen, where Clara resided. 

“Can you go help her?” Arthur mouthed.

And then out the door he and Maple was— leaving Clara and I alone in the apartment.

I blinked. Things had happened a little too fast for me to really follow. I frowned, setting down the newly refurbished watering can before standing with a bitten down wince. My head ached, and I rubbed at it before pocketing my Focuses and walking around to check on Clara. Internally, I disliked the idea of being alone with Clara, but I was above letting my emotions get in the way of accomplishing something: that being dinner, at the moment. That, and the fact that I still vaguely remembered Arthur letting me know that she had her own reasons for what she did.

Like I don’t know that myself, I privately thought, that line of reasoning can apply to anyone and everyone. 

The Bell’s family kitchen arrangement was cramped. Homely, or possibly cozy, if one preferred the term.

An alcove small enough that if one stood in the center of it— they could reach all the appliances just by turning around. It felt cramped even with a single person occupying it; choked with two; and would never fit three. 

It didn’t help that the current space looked as if a storm had tumbled through; a teapot sat slowly heating on the farthest stove, huffing steam every so often; no less than three cutting boards had been lain out, each with their own assortment of either vegetables or meats— most of which I couldn’t identify. I think I saw parsley, in one, next to a healthy amount of onion and tomato. Pots and plates were strewn high enough to reach the cupboard above; and Clara herself, brow tight with concentration as her eyes darted to and fro. Her eyes flickered up as I appeared in the doorway.

“Do you need help?” I asked, frowning at the mess.

“Not—“ Clara made a sound like she was catching herself, and she looked away “— yes. Please feel free to assist me.”

I didn’t comment on the brief comment that sounded all too much like, not from you, and took my place besides her. “What do you need help with?”

“The tomatoes need to be diced, and so do the onions,” she rattled off, not looking at me. “I need to look after the pan…” She paused. “You know how to cut vegetables, right?”

I choked down my retort, softly sighing as I undid the buttons on my cuffs and rolled up the sleeves of my blouse. “How small do you need them cut?”

After a heartbeat, she responded: “Completely diced— like on the verge of being pulped.” 

I hummed, sliding a knife from the stand, shifting a cutting board over, and grabbing a washed tomato. I steadied my hand and got to work. 

The next several minutes flowed by in quiet, mutual silence. Clara didn’t seem intent on making conversation, silently staring down at the meat frying in the pan, occasionally flipping or throwing in some spice I didn’t recognize. I focused on dicing the tomatoes, then sweeping them into a bowl. Then doing the same again to the onions, then the spring onions Clara silently slid beside the cutting board. Occasionally, my mind flickered away from dicing, and to reflecting on my life— namely the recent topics that had been troubling me. 

Thinking on certain topics made me… uncomfortable, but after my breakdown in the carriage, the exhaustion and the dull headache made it significantly easier to ignore the way I felt about them. 

Clara broke the silence first, speaking haltingly in that prideful tone of hers: “She’s uh, right, you know.”

“What?” I frowned.

“Arthur’s mom. The thing she talked to you about,” Clara continued, still poking and prodding the meat sizzling in the pan. “The importance of taking that first step forward.”

I glanced at her. Her expression was cloistered, pensive. She prodded the meat again, then flipped it again. Both sides were already cooked. Unable to keep my frown from sliding into a scowl, I asked, “You were eavesdropping?”

Clara grimaced. “Not intentionally. I just happened to walk out in the middle of your talk— and I felt too awkward just walking out to tell her that we were missing beets.”

“Whatever— I suppose,” I huffed, indignation sparking in my chest. “… Are you going to make fun of me?”

“I— what— no— no no,” she sputtered, turning a bewildered look towards me. “I wouldn’t—“

“— then what is this? Some consolation?” I scoffed, letting the knife rest. Vulnerability with Arthur was one thing, but vulnerability with Clara? That prissy, egotistical teacher’s pet? That was another thing entirely. “Did you think I needed your assurance too?”

“No—“

“Then what is this? A peace—” 

“Angels—“ Clara let out a terse breath, and her insufferable tone was back again “— would it kill you to at least hear me out?”

Rationale sputtered and spat, shutting my mouth before I could fling more barbs at her. What’s the harm in hearing her out? Clara has her own reasons, you know. 

“Are you done yelling at me?”

“I was not yelling.” 

“Because your scorn-filled hissing was any better.”

“Tch,” I tutted, the anger slowly dying out. “You wanted me to hear you out, Eigenlicht?”

“Right,” Clara huffed. “Did you get the letter I sent?”

“The one where you’d set up a meeting between us and The Gilded Cage?”

“It— it was less my doing and more her setting it up. Don’t shoot the messenger, alright?”

I made a noise of derision, and Clara let out a slow breath. 

“Anyway,” she strained, clearing grounding out the words, “Arthur talked to me on the night of your hospitalization.”

“I knew that much.” 

Clara let out another slow breath, continuing, “Which led me to believe that we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

My anger promptly sputtered out, and I frowned. I probably could have said something back— something like, you think? or dismissed her statement out of hand, but here she was, barely retorting, making an effort to communicate. My earlier declaration bubbled back to the surface: I’ll make an effort to communicate more clearly— a sentence I’d rattled off with little intention of actually making good on, but the offer remained. I sighed. The least I could do was to return the favor— if this led to a better relationship between Clara and I, that’d be preferable to the hostility.

“I—“ Clara let out another breath, sighing “— I guess I just wanted to let you know it’s normal.”

“Normal for what?”

“I’m assuming you don’t feel great after that night? I can see the awkwardness in your movements, and uh…” Clara looked away, sheepish.

“… and?”

She glanced back. “People usually don’t feel great after killing other people.”

Ah, that’s the reason she’s checking in. I swallowed, shoving down the memories before they could properly come up, focusing on chopping and what Clara had to say next. The onions felt too squishy. The tomatoes sat in the bowl like a pulpy mix of viscera. Shakily, I set the knife to the side before I could nick myself.

“… Unless… unless you don’t feel bad?” Clara tentatively put out, as if she didn’t want to consider the possibility.

“Why wouldn’t I feel bad, Eigenlicht?” I said, my voice very quickly cracking like frost. “Do you think me some kind of monster? That I fed myself justifications like, ‘they’re bad guys so it’s okay’?” 

“That’s— that’s not what—“

“I know the justifications; it was self defense; it was me or them, I shouldn’t feel bad for doing what I had to do to survive—“

“— but it still doesn’t feel very good, does it?” Clara finished. I let out a shaky breath, and stepped away from the counter, to lean against the doorframe and let my gaze hang skyward. After a moment, I let my eyes shut. Slowly, I took a deep breath, and shoved the reaction down— I refused— refused to breakdown in front of Clara.

I breathed out, slowly letting my vision fill with the ceiling above. “Are you… are you speaking from experience?”

Without missing a beat, Clara responded, her voice free of judgment. Her eyes had a far away look. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m sure my actions have led someone to dying, one way or another. I do my best not to kill anyone— but sometimes you get swept away in the moment.”

I let out another breath, and attempted to resume some level of normalcy. I covered the bowl of tomatoes with a rag, and swapped from dicing the onions to the shredding the lettuce. Clara glanced at me, before wordlessly taking my place with the knife. 

“Do you often get swept away in the moment?” My voice felt many times too quiet, and the topic far too heavy for a talk in the kitchen— but the disjunctive nature helped. It didn’t help much, but it still helped.

“When I started, yeah.” The sound of the knife thunking into the wood filled the silence. “Not really, anymore.”

“Did you lose yourself the other night?”

“… At other times, yeah. Not while I was fighting.”

“Other times like…?”

The knife stopped hitting the cutting board. After a heartbeat, it began again. “When I woke up beside you and Arthur. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Oh,” I replied out of reflex, “sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

But it is— the truth whispered. If you’d been faster— if you’d been stronger, you could’ve avoided getting kidnapped. You could’ve prevented everything that followed. 

I hummed, ignoring the little voice, and ran the lettuce under the sink. The water was cold, making my fingers numb. The pale, shaded light from the window glistened off each drop on each of the leaves. The knife-beat paused, before resuming a moment later. 

“Have you ever…” I trailed off, unsure where exactly I was going with the question. 

“… killed anyone?” Clara bluntly finished.

“Mhmm.”

“There was one.” Clara’s voice was a distant thing, slow and lacking any pomp, any pride. A part of me wanted to stop her, so she didn’t have to say it out loud— like saying it aloud would somehow make it any more real than it already was. 

Ignorance, I scolded myself, shut up and listen, lest you’re moored to this guilt forever. 

“Small girl, couldn’t have been older than ten,” Clara continued. The chopping had stopped now. “Got the drop on me right after I tumbled with her friends. Stuck a knife into my back after I let my Shroud down. My Expression hadn’t grown in yet, so I didn’t see her coming.”

The chopping began again, this time, with the lettuce I’d peeled. I moved to take the pan off the fire. “Swung like my life was being threatened— it wasn’t, I learned later it didn’t hit anything vital, but she slammed into a pile of pallets, crashed through and over the railing.” Clara let out a slow breath. “She fell ten miles, into the Underhollow. I know she didn’t survive. I don’t know if she’d committed crimes or even why she’d been there that day. I didn’t even know her name.”

My eyes slid to her hands— and how they stayed steadily gripping the knife, how Clara continued chopping without a dip or pause in rhythm. Part of me wondered if she felt anything for it. Almost immediately, I stomped out that thought— Of course she feels something, otherwise, the two of you wouldn’t have had this conversation in the first place. 

“… How…” I struggled on the phrasing. How did you overcome murdering a child? “How did you come to terms?”

“I, uh— I realize how cheesy this sounds.”

“Is it true, at least?”

“Yeah.”

“Then go on.”

“I— after that— I realized that the reasons I fought were worth spilling a little bit of blood over.”

I gave her a concerned frown. “The ends justify the means?”

“Uh. Something like that, yeah.”

“… What is it you fight for?”

Clara let out a long breath. “… I want a better future, I guess. I don’t want to look at a kid and hope she’s not hiding a knife behind her back to stab me with.”

“And that’s your justification? The reason you’re… the reason you can bear those deaths on your name?”

Clara paused for a long moment, and I’d worried that I’d said something that had gone too far. After several long heartbeats, she said, “… a sword that doesn’t bend will break, and a broken sword does more harm than good.”

My frown grew. “Did you get that quote from Arthur?” 

“Yeah.” Clara let out a long breath. “The morning after that assignment, I had a lecture with Professor Talon.”

I let out a wince. Lectures with Talon often ended in bruises and a note to the infirmary. I couldn’t imagine it would’ve went any better for Clara.

She continued, “Yeah. Then Arthur hit me with that line— like he knew I was going through a rough patch. Pretty sure he only saw the bruises on my arms and sides and decided I was about to give up or something.”

I hummed in agreement, thinking back to the first time I met Arthur. It wasn’t anything grand, he’d just approached me one day and chattered my ear off about “how cool my magic was.” The rest was history.

“Anyway— yeah. I guess what I’m trying to say is that even though we do things we might regret we can’t change the past, so there’s no use beating ourselves up over it. All there’s to do is to take the first step in moving forward.”

I opened my mouth, only to shut it again. Guilt coiled around my throat like thorns. If I listened hard enough, I could hear the scream, still. If I stared too long at the meat in the pan, I could see Patches’ face. I swallowed down my words.

Doesn’t she deserve better? that part of me echoed again. It was almost shot through with guilt again— almost— before the same voice whispered, you already entertained better communication earlier— what’s the harm in getting it off your chest? This could be your only chance.  

Being vulnerable with Arthur was one thing, being vulnerable with Clara, was another. Somehow— her not knowing me as well made it easier to speak. Perhaps the effect was similar to a confessional booth. I’d never been to one, but I understood the concept well enough. Maybe I hadn’t given them as much stock as I should have. 

Something strange coiled in my chest— something that blotted out the guilt that had soaked into my bones over the last week. 

Before I could second guess myself, I opened my mouth again, and forced the words out. They tumbled past my tongue, barely above a whisper, but Clara turned her head— just enough to let me know that she was listening.

“Patches,” I said, staring down at the counter top, “was the name of the guy I killed. He didn’t really deserve what I did to him— but I panicked, and did the only thing I could think of.”

Clara stayed silent, still chopping.

“I— I threw— I threw a cloud of dust at him,” I whispered, slowly turning horribly numb. “And I used Transmutation to expand each of the specks of dust as he breathed it in. I didn’t have my glasses— but I could tell his face was gone.”

Clara let out a soft breath.

I continued: “That wasn’t the worst part, not really. I think it would’ve been better if he died immediately. But he didn’t. He screamed with his face doing its best imitation of a shattered honeycomb. His throat wasn’t really destroyed— but you could hear the gurgle.” My voice grew very, very quiet. “He screamed a lot.”

The silence afterwards was deafening. Clara had stopped chopping, the knife limp in her hand. A frown had spread across her face, and she wasn’t looking at me, staring down at the bowl of chopped lettuce. Rot coiled in my chest, twisting and mixing with the caustic anxiety that threatened tears in my eyes.

“I— shit. Uh.” Clara let out a shaky breath. “I suppose I’ll admit it, Laurent, you’ve got me, uh, firmly beat.”

I sniffled, and a bitter giggle climbed out of my throat before I could stop it. “It’s not a competition.”

We fell into silence, and I rubbed at my eyes. After a heartbeat, Clara said, “Uh, feel any better?”

“A little bit.” I sighed, slowly dragging my composure back onto my face. “… Thank you, for this, I guess.”

An expression like she’d watched a fish sprout legs and skip across the street crossed her face.

“What?” I narrowed my eyes. “Did— “ I frowned “— did you think I was incapable of expressing my thanks?”

“I— nothing. Nothing,” Clara muttered, turning back to the chopping board. “I just guess I’ll have to change my opinion of you. From snobby, irritating noble to awkward dork who can’t express her emotions properly.”

I choked, sputtering. “W— what?”

“Well, yeah,” Clara said in that same insufferable tone she always had, as if it should’ve been obvious, “because you can’t express your emotions properly; so, awkward. And you study Dimensionalism— so, a dork who loves her books way too much.”

“How do you even… how do you even know I study that…?”

It’s regulated under seal of the Empress— as far as anyone else knows, I do nothing exciting despite my rank. 

“Dimensionalism,” she recited, “while theoretically opening the way towards a spell that could rewind time, much like the other postulated methods of travel, is logistically unfeasible.”

That quote sounded familiar, but I didn’t know why. I scowled. “You call me a dork yet you’re quoting another one of your professors?”

“I’m quoting you,” Clara said. “Specifically, the report you wrote concerning the future financial feasibility of your discipline.”

“I still don’t… how have you… you’ve read my stuff? How?”

“I get special allowance for my assignments,” Clara proclaimed, smug. “It’s a privilege.”

“… and you use it to read my papers.”

“You write like a snarky academic. It’s funny.”

“I— excuse me?”

“I stand by what I said.”

“No— I just, you know— I don’t know actually,” I sighed, feeling my headache come back. “It’s somehow very fitting that you use my highly technical research papers as leisure reading.”

An odd warmth tumbled around in my chest, blotting out the exhaustion that had ground itself into my bones. I didn’t recognize it, but it brought a goofy grin to my face. Clara gave me a funny look. 

“I— are we friends now… uh, Clara?”

“Huh—“ Clara made a choked sound, before she coughed. “No— no.”

“Do— do friends not do this for each other?” I kept the expression on my face innocent. “I thought Arthur spoke to you about me?”

Clara got a dark look— an emotion I recognized crossing her face; when Arthur made a request we didn’t have the heart to deny. “He did,” she muttered darkly.

I gave her an understanding look. “Did he tell you and I quote, ‘She has her own reasons’?”

“Yeah…”

Until Maple and Arthur came back, Clara and I shared in a contemplative silence, and the heaviness in my heart felt marginally lighter.