Morning, Loshis 2nd, 2719
Room 36, Marvelous Mermaid Inn, Castle Hill
Niccolette had risen before dawn after a night of dull, dreamless sleep, no less furious than when she had laid down. For once, there was no alcohol at her bedside, only the faintest headache throbbing in her temples, and when she reached for something to drink, it was water. She had woken to the first sweep of pale gray-pink light creeping in through the open shutters to spill across her sheets, and to the warmth of anger in her chest, beating through her.
Niccolette had swept aside her rumpled bedclothes, set the empty glass steadily on her bedside table, and gone to meditate. Flames swept out from her to light the candles of her plot, and she found her place between them and let herself become one with the world.
She breathed in the bitter reek of her own sorrow, and exhaled it back out - not forgotten, not put away, but soothed for just a little while. She breathed in the faint fishy echo of the Rose beyond, and did not fight it, this place where she had found herself, but took it within herself and returned it, just a little changed. She breathed in the air that swirled over the Tincta Basta from all along the Vein, and she knew that the entire world was the mona, and she let herself be connected to it, be a part of it.
And then Niccolette rose, and snuffled the candles with a phrase, and went to make herself ready for conquest. She bathed, deeply, in the hottest water she could stand; she scrubbed all the dirt and sweat away, and she washed her hair too, digging her fingers into her scalp.
Niccolette brushed her hair out when she was done, wrapped herself in a bath robe, and went to eat. She set water to boil and searched the larder, finding the sealed tin of dried oats and the other of dried herbs and black tea. Tea and oatmeal, made on the stove; she did not have much of an appetite, in truth, but she managed spoonful after spoonful of the gloppy stuff without bothering to season it, and washed it down with tea. No nausea threatened her stomach; the heat had left no space for it. She dressed, sliding the black dress against her skin and closing it over herself. She traced her fingers over the textured cloth of the bodice, the curve of the pattern reminding her of flames etched in black. She let her fingers creep up to the nearly sheer fabric that covered her neck and arms and did not snatch them away from herself.
Niccolette steeled herself and found that place of calm in the center of the fiery storm. She turned to the mirror, and she pulled its cover away. She held there until she could bear the sight without flinching, until she could keep from looking away. She reached for her brush, dragging it steadily through her hair again, until the heavy long strands were smooth enough. She sat at her vanity then, and faced her reflection, and held herself there as she painted dark red color onto her lips, and black liner around the edges of her eyes. She did not trouble to brush color onto her cheeks; they were flushed already, and her eyes bright, and for once not with unshed tears.
Niccolette laced up her small black boots, settled her dark gray cloak over her shoulders, slipped her gun into a pocket, and emerged into the morning. And there she hesitated; the light was bright, and she was tired, terribly tired, and all of a sudden the ache in her head was worse. She pressed her fingers to her temple and thought – thought – she could go back inside, Niccolette thought, and have just a sip of something. Just to steady herself. It wouldn’t quench the flames in her chest, it wouldn’t – the Bastian took a deep breath, and murmured a few words of monite to herself instead, because she did not think she could do it without. Slight, yes, but there was a faint easing of her headache, and she could turn her face to the sunlight without the ache worsening. It was hard, sometimes, terribly hard, to come to the mona from a place of strength, when weakness seemed to be all she had left.
Marvelous Mermaid Inn, Castle Hill; she did not need to look at the note again to remember. Xavier Zhirune; she did not need to look either to remember the wick’s name, written on the slip of paper they had shoved into the spot where the sapphire necklace Uzoji had gifted her for their fourth anniversary had once rested. She did not care about the rest of it; she had not lied to them, two half-remembered nights ago. Stripe the rubies, and the ivory bookend, and the silver – stripe all of it. But the missing necklace, and that note worst of all – taunting her, as if daring her to hold to the limits she had set, suggesting that she bargain with them. Not only weakness, Niccolette promised herself; she had strength too, still. She would find it somewhere in herself, and she would see this through. The wick would be sorry; conquest demanded no less of her. The fury in her chest glowed hot again, fed by the thought of that slip of paper, of the memory of Uzoji’s hands clasping the necklace against her bare skin, his laughter and her joy, all of it burnt away –
Niccolette walked through the streets of Quarter Fords, through the crackle and fry of the last of breakfast spices, the lingering rich scent of kofi, past dark-skinned men and women and light-skinned ones too, already leaving home behind to mingle on the streets. She crossed into Cantile, where shops were open for the morning, doors unbarred and made welcoming, voices raised in the echo of conversation. Up, then, into the streets of Castle Hill, busier as she went, and Niccolette walked steadily on past carriages and Seventen and pirates and merchants. If she even saw any of it, certainly none of it touched her. She wore her field around her, bright and sharp in the air, and walked through the crowds without ever hesitating, as if she knew that they would part for her.
Into the Marvelous Mermaid then, down the hall, and Niccolette still never hesitated, though she drew her field in close to her skin, dampened it and held it close. Just wait, she promised the mona; this conquest will come. Just wait. I am still strong.
Niccolette did not stop to knock; she flung upon the door of Room 36 and stepped inside, and her ramscott swept out from her, pulsed through the fullest extent of its range. There was no anger in it, not the faintest trace of red or blue colorshifting the air around her, nothing but crisp, indectal precision - but there was anger writ stark on her face, and in the curl of her hands at her side. Her burning gaze found Xavier Zhirune, and there was hot color in her cheeks, enough to spare. Niccolette considered that she had already warned them well enough aloud; she thought perhaps another sort of lesson would be best. It was monite, not Estuan, that she spoke in the doorway, a low, steady chant, quick but precise, every syllable flawlessly enunciated, and hazy energy rose from her and swept through the air to sink into the wick.
The control spell was not the fastest Niccolette could have cast, but she trusted to the surprise of her appearance to give her a few extra moments, the abrupt leap into casting to give her enough of an edge. All the same, she reached into her pocket as she spoke and took out her pistol, leveling it at the galdor as she closed the door behind her. It was a favorite of hers for all that it was a bit crude, even if it lasted only as long as one could hold the upkeep, even if it required considerable raw power. Cast properly, at full strength, it would cut off the target’s ability to move entirely; drop them, like a puppet with their strings cut, and send them to the ground in a boneless heap, unable to move even a finger or toe.
Niccolette curled her spell and held the upkeep, careful and deliberate. The mona were a little sluggish around her still, for all her careful meditation, for all her preparation, for all her will. There would be a moment when Xavier would feel the spell at full strength – would drop, made limp – but then feeling would return, and movement would be like swimming through thick, syrupy molasses, slow and painful and difficult but not impossible. Niccolette held the upkeep and the pistol, gave a furious, warning glance to the other Bastian, and turned her attention back to Xavier.
Niccolette crossed the room to the limp wick, and knelt beside them, black skirt pooling on the ground around her. She tangled her fingers in that long, lovely hair, jerked their head back and met violet eyes with her green gaze. “No more warnings,” Niccolette promised, and shoved the Gioran’s head back against the floorboards.
The galdor rose, stepped away and released her upkeep, letting life rush back into the wick’s body. Niccolette pulsed her field forcefully, the living mona in it even brighter and sharper now, the remains of her spell vivid in the air around her, pistol still held ready. “Where is my necklace?” The Bad Brother asked, looking between the two of them.
