Chapter 36

Overture

Present
Bucharest

s only the heads of household were going to be at the meeting, Pippin was getting to spend the night with her old family, sans Phrixus, and there was a wonderful garden party in the making. Pippin wore her black and white striped unitard for it, and was humming to herself, a tune that had no lyrics, but was very recognisable. Of course, that was why the unitard was striped vertically down her torso and legs, and banded her arms horizontally.¹

Aix was only showered and half-dressed when there was a knock on the door, and almost opened the door naked, remembering just in time he had a nice fluffy pink robe now, and throwing it on before cracking it.

‘Are you able to catch plague or not?’ he asked, hiding behind the door.

‘Not?’ came the slightly confused reply, from one of the castrati, though Aix hadn’t known any of them long enough to be able to delineate between them. Aix let go of the door so he could finish tying the robe closed.

‘Sorry, I just got out the shower,’ he said, as Pippin leapt off the bed and bounded across the room.

‘Fissieeeeeeeee!’ she said, pelting into Felice’s arms as he laughed and caught her, rocking back a step with the force of her excitement. His blue hair was in a simpler style, the top half pulled up and all of it curled, the spirals bouncing prettily with every little movement.

‘Sono così dispiaciuto,’ Felice said, ‘I did not mean to interrupt you when you were indecent.’

‘Tesoro,’ fell syrupy from Aix’s lips before he could think, his voice deep and purry and villainous, ‘I have never been decent a day in my life.’

Felice seemed startled into a high titter, and fled; it was only Pippin sharing her perception with him that made Aix realise he’d actually made Felice blush and get flustered. It was so novel to actually know that, not simply have a void there.

Aix went back to getting dressed for the meeting, singing to the warm-up playlist he’d put together over the past two weeks as he did, because there had been talk of singing after the meeting, and he needed to warm up. It had a spread of jazz standards and showtunes that were in his tessitura, and had big loud trills, and low purry notes, that resonated and let him show off. His new neighbour friends had helped him put it together, particularly the Pard men, who were all of the opinion Aix had a very feline voice, nicely deep and loud. Aix was still a little nervous at performing for professionals who were from traditional ‘higher is better’ vocal attitudes, but he could only be himself and go over all the compliments he had received, and remember he was far more comfortable with his speaking voice now, and felt far more himself because of his voice.

It was hard to imagine anybody he’d met so far saying anything mean to him about his voice just for it being low, but if life had taught Aix one thing it was that you couldn’t rely on people to be predictable, or the best version of themselves. People were petty, and often cruel and thoughtless. It was better, Aix had learned, not to hope for more—no matter who they were. It felt bitter and mean to think that of people who had been so nice and gentle to him so far, but Aix was autistic, he couldn’t afford to give the benefit of the doubt, because he didn’t know when it did and didn’t apply.

He could only look fabulous, and know that René liked his voice, and so did Michaela, and Heather, both of whom had heard him sing on the road trip to Maryland. He’d sung with them—country songs with Michaela, and some old shanties with Heather, who also taught him a lullaby in old Cornish, one she’d sung to her many children over the years, and had sung to Aix once when they had been stopped in the deep south and Aix had been having an anxiety attack.

The last song in the playlist wasn’t for singing, it was for hype, for having confidence and reminding him of his roots and his friends.

Hey folks! Beggin’ your pardon!
Scuse me—sorry to barge in!
Now let’s skip the tears and start on
The whole
Y’know
Being dead thing!

It was what was still playing in his head as he finished washing the body glitter off his hands, got the empty journal and his newly filled fountain pen, and left his room—on foot, because he was confident of the way there, this time. He met Heather outside; she was naked and halfway in her sealskin coat, silver and spotty and whiskery (well, more than usual—like Aix, Heather had natural facial hair. Unlike Aix, it wasn’t a sign of being intersex at all, but being a seal).

‘Wow, you look amazing,’ Aix said, because she did and he believed in complimenting someone when he had nothing to say. She laughed, showing the signature three-point lobodontinid seal teeth. ‘I keep meaning to ask, um, you don’t have to answer if its rude, but… those are leopard seal teeth.’

‘Leopard seals have my teeth,’ she said, chuckling. ‘As I’m older, and all. Grandmother, they call me. Well, everyone does, but they’ve a right.’

Aix paused, at that. ‘…Are you from before the ice age or something, Heather.’

‘Or something,’ she said, ‘come on, pup.’

‘Can I ask you about it?’

‘About what?’

‘About what! About the ice age, Heather! About… man, I gotta do some research so I know what questions to ask. The age of mammals is not my forte…’

‘I remember seeing the first two-leg people on my beach,’ Heather said, as she herded him into the elevator and closed both gates. ‘Anyone teach you to use this yet?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘Um, no,’ Aix said.

‘Well they should have. Come over here, watch me. You move this one first, to the floor you want—here, feel? That’s the counterweights. And this here is the safety catch—you close both gates and set the floor before you flip it off, hear?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Aix said dutifully.

‘Good lad.’ She flipped the safety off, and… the elevator didn’t exactly lurch, but Aix could feel through the car that something had been let go. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘the trick is easing the go lever.’

‘Oh, like a gas pedal,’ Aix said.

‘Ohhh, you learned how to drive properly,’ Heather said, pleased, as she put his hand on the brass lever and put her enormous slightly-webbed hand over his, showing him how it felt.

Aix preferred this way of learning things, and appreciated the lesson, fascinated by the entirely mechanical elevator. It was round, like a birdcage, and big enough for even Heather to lay down in. As it eased up, Aix loved that he could kind of feel the counterweights, the clack-clack-clack of the chains pulling them up reminding him of roller coasters—and he loved roller coasters.

They stopped, and the car swayed a little. ‘Flip the safety,’ Heather said, and Aix did. The swaying stopped. ‘Can you figure out the gates?’

‘I think so,’ Aix said, ‘it’s so cool that this thing has no motor or anything.’

‘Humans never built them like this,’ Heather said, as Aix carefully opened the inner accordion gate, then the outer double gate, which just opened on hinges. There was only the tiniest of gaps between the elevator floor and the regular one, it was so incredibly precise that Aix had never even felt it with his wheels when he’d been in his chair. ‘Got too fond of motors too quickly, humans did.’

‘So this works more like a clock?’ Aix asked.

‘You’d have to ask the knockers that, pup, I’m just a humble dildo merchant. Now, you’ve got to be warned about one of my cousins’t doesn’t show up until meetings. He’s a right old son of a bitch, and he hates animals. Representative of the Summerfolk, what your generation call the Seelie.’

‘Wait—wait, I thought Garnet was Seelie.’

‘What, and him going about at night all the time? No pup, he’s Autumnfolk, the Unseelie as humans now say. You’ve got it backwards, you know. Summerfolk looks nice; but so does poison—‘fore it kills you.’

‘Summer kills people,’ Aix agreed, nodding. ‘I’m from the desert, I grok the danger of the sun. Are there winterfolk?’

‘Aye,’ Heather said, grinning. ‘That’s me.’

‘Sweetwater folk too, or just the Sea?’

‘Sharp as teeth, you are!’ she said, barking a laugh that sounded far less human. ‘Springfolk is sweetwater, Winterfolk is us from the salt.’

‘Spring… is that a pun.’

Heather didn’t answer but to chuckle.

‘That’s a pun, isn’t it?’ Aix said, grinning.

‘Listen, pup,’ Heather said. ‘You put your inhaler in your pocket like I told you? You put a mask in there too?’

‘I did, yes.’ Aix said, pulling the little plastic bag out that he’d put them in. Suits were marvellous things, full of pockets. He pulled out the mask, which was one of the very serious ones, and started to put it on.

‘No, no,’ Heather said, pointing at the inhaler, ‘take a breath of that first.’

Aix considered trying to explain that wasn’t how it worked, but reminded himself she was literally millions of years old, and a fae, and nothing good ever came of questioning a kindly fae’s orders. He shook the inhaler and exhaled, doing the primer puffs because it had been so long since he’d used it, and then inhaling two puffs, holding his breath and feeling his heart start to race, like usual. Two was the maximum per day, but it was also expired, and that meant it was weaker (or so Aix assumed). He put it back in the bag.

‘Not in the bag, in your pocket. Ready to hand, but hidden.’

Aix’s mind started to grate at the orders, but he obeyed, putting it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket and finally letting the breath out. He put the mask on with trembling hands—not trembling out of fear or anger, but because two puffs from the inhaler always did that to him. His vision was weird too, and would be a little wobbly for a while, just like his pulse would be racing. But he could breathe better than usual.

It still fogged up his glasses, unless he breathed slowly. He fiddled with it, trying to get a seal.

‘Here, I’ve got tape,’ Heather said, pulling some out. Aix pulled the mask off and took the tape, putting it on the nose part—well, trying. His fingers were shaking too much to place it accurately.

‘Can you do this?’ he asked her, and she just nodded, making quick work of it and handing it back. It was suddenly much more comfortable. He let her check the mask for him, trusting she knew what the hell she was doing (he didn’t, he’d reacted to the plague by just quarantining, because he had been living totally alone and never leaving the house anyway—the shock of suddenly living in a huge city was kind of terrifying, and he hadn’t left the apartment building yet).

The door to the meeting room opened, and Michaela came out, also masked, shutting the door behind herself quietly. She was in the maille she wore as armour, but it wasn’t as covered up as she usually made it while in civilian areas; she looked like a proper medieval warrior, with a few modern swaps in terms of fabrics and sewing techniques. ‘You warn him about Rosenrot?’

‘She made me take two puffs of albuterol and put the mask on real good, if that’s what you mean,’ Aix said, because he could ask Mike, but at the same time, not being given an answer had let his brain start whirring away at the mystery. ‘Best I can guess is he’s a flower with hyperallergenic pollen and his modus operandi is anaphylactic shock.’

‘And bingo was his name-o,’ Michaela said, which Aix was used to by now—she said the extended phrase, which was a quirk Aix rather liked. ‘He’s plantfolk. The mask and your meds should keep you alive if he gets ornery.’

‘Unfortunately, the meds mean I can’t take notes.’ Aix held up his left hand, showing how his hands were still trembling uncontrollably. ‘I feel like Gene Wilder in Blazing Saddles with this.’

Cracking a joke distracted him from the should in Michaela’s sentence.

Michaela chuckled at the joke. ‘Claudiu is taking minutes, he always does. You can use your book and pen to doodle if you need a little distraction. Anyway,’ she said, ‘You’ll be at D’s right hand, because you’re the guest of honour, and Mr Asher’s gonna be between you and Rosenrot.’

‘Why is he sitting so close to me if he’s so dangerous?’

‘Believe me, I asked D the same thing, loudly. But it’s… it’s a rank thing. And he… he’s poking you, okay. I wanted to give you some advice, because it’s really backwards to what you probably think you should do: get angry if you’re angry. Don’t try and swallow it down to be polite. Get mad.’

‘Make life take the lemons back—do you know who I am?’ Aix said, more to call forth the right amount of entitlement-to-get-angry-visibly than anything.

‘Exactly.’

Heather actually went in first, and Aix understood why—he was glad they were going to be in the room before him, and dramatics had to be put on hold for safety, always.

That ‘should’ sort of haunted him. He stopped Michaela before she went in. ‘Hey um, do you at least have an epi-pen, if you knew this would happen?’

‘Yes, baby, I have an epi-pen. We also have a roomful of monsters ready to turn you and Rosenrot does not want an angry baby monster on his hands, believe me. Also,’ she added, kissing Aix’s curls gently, one strong hand on his shoulder. ‘Mr Asher will set him on fire, and Heather has a machete.’

‘Where is she keeping it?’ Because Heather was naked, silvery and spotted fur notwithstanding. He didn’t really expect an answer, and Michaela didn’t give him one, patting his shoulder.

‘You can do this, you’re a powerful witch and you have the power to put him in his place.’

‘I do?’

‘Mhm.’ She gently tapped Aix’s forehead with a fingertip. ‘Up in that shiny brain of yours. I ain’t no good at biology sciencin’, nobody in that room is—other’n you.’ And with that, she turned and left him in the hallway, to come in on his own time.

Science. Science was going to put Rosenrot in his place? Well, that was curious.

‘Okay,’ Aix said, straightening up and shaking himself, shooting his cuffs. He made his voice a low and filthy growl. ‘It’s showtime.’

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