My older brother’s first speech at the Bellvoir Biannual Tea Party was a success. I found that my lips made the shapes of each word as he spoke. You could say I that had them rehearsed as much as he, the past three nights spent agonising over turns of phrase, days sitting on benches around the town, listening. A speech is merely a conversation with the people, yet the other political prospects don’t even seem to get this. He who cannot speak the language of the people, cannot lead them.

  Maria rested only once on the way to Carcassonne, perching in a large oak tree just off a dirt path leading to a farmhouse. She slept here long into the night, maintaining her form as a swallow, before awaking pre-dawn and continuing on her way.

  Just as the very first light spread its cape across the French countryside, she laid eyes upon the massive fortress of Carcassonne. The city was well-hidden in the morning haze. She did not venture into the fortifications themselves, but descended before this, down into the surrounding towns among the trees and lakes.

  As she dipped lower, the surrounding countryside became obscured behind brick buildings and large tree canopies. Convenient dirt roads wound about housing, but were predominately untravelled at this early hour save for a small number of food and resource wagons.

  Maria landed at a spot behind a textiles factory. Here, she was obscured by brick, hills and trees; the spot was inaccessible to most people. She immediately metamorphosised back into her human form, naked. As soon as her bare feet touched the grass, she doubled over and vomited all over the ground. Hanging her neck, she pressed the palm of her hand into the brick wall and blew hard, controlled breaths to steady herself.

  Travelling like this messed with your head. Straight lines became wavy, the sky a faint shade of green. She could not quite make out how far her own hand was from the front of her face, nor if a person was real or hallucinated.

  Get out of it, she urged herself, slapping her wrist against her leg. She first tried to straighten herself, and then walk from the spot. Once she could, she identified a little satchel at the base of the tree, tied with rope. Collecting this, she opened it up to reveal a full set of clothes, and dressed herself as quickly as possible. She quietly thanked the mysterious person who had left it for her.

  It took a bit of tugging, but she eventually forced it to fit her. The trousers and overshirt were plain yet high quality, if a little beneath her usual size. She threw on a cloak over the top of this, and then from a leather sleeve standing against the tree, she took her wand. The firm, thin wood ran from her hand to the ground; and, where it met the grass, curved slightly. She slid the wand into a loop band on the inside of her cloak. Finally, she withdrew from a little satchel in the breast pocket a hair band, which she used to pin back her black (yet greying) hair. Once this was taken care of, she left everything where she had found it and made her way from the textiles building, back to the main road.

  Josephine was sitting alone at the inn when Maria arrived. The building was quiet, the only other person besides Josephine being a short man who was ostensibly the establishment’s owner. He was in the corner showing little interest in what Maria and Josephine were doing, except to occasionally glance up at them over his ledgers and tankard.

  Josephine slid a fruit cake across the table as Maria joined her. It was topped with strawberry icing, with chunks of fruit sticking out of the fluffy form. Her stomach churned with hunger and she did not waste any time getting into it.

  “You certainly know my appetite,” Maria said. “Safe travels?”

  “Yes, it was rather boring,” replied Josephine. It appeared that she had already finished her own fruit cake, and was left with nothing to do but watch Maria ungraciously consume hers.

  “One should not complain that her travels are boring,” said Maria.

  “I wasn’t complaining.”

  Maria shrugged, focusing back on her cake.

  Josephine rolled her eyes, and began picking at her hangnails.

  “Is it only me who feels as though she has spun around thirty-odd times when she metamorphosises out of animal form?” Maria asked.

  Josephine continued picking her nails. “Only the first time I did it.” She stopped picking, looking up at Maria with gorgeous dark eyes. Her painted lips twitched briefly into a smile, then back. “Could not walk for days after that, and swore I’d never do it again.”

  “You are talking about metamorphosis, still?” Maria said.

  Josephine huffed loudly. “Who knew you were such a dirty woman.”

  After a brief breakfast, Maria and Josephine took the main road up the spiralling hills of Carcassonne to the citadel, where Maria’s brother Alfred resided.

  The citadel was heavily-fortified and well-trodden. The air was cooler in these heights, yet smelt less of trees and more unpleasantly of stone and rock. With the tall fortifications (mostly abandoned) and narrow roads, Maria did feel a slight unease caused by mild claustrophobia. Their journey ended at the town hall. This was a complicated yet striking building with a sense of grandeur that smelt greatly of her brother’s wallet. Its blue and gold painted walls opened into a reception with branching corridors.

  Maria and Josephine went to the administrator’s box, where Maria told the lady there that she was here to meet with Alfred. After some waiting, the lady returned and said that Alfred would be down in a moment, right after he came out of a meeting.

  “Do you want me there or shall I wait somewhere else?” Josephine asked in a quiet voice as they drifted from the box into the middle of the waiting area. Maria saw somebody walk past with a bundle of papers in his arm, and a cigar from his lips. He did glance briefly at the two women, but made no gesture or indication of acknowledging them.

  “Since you are here,” said Maria, “you are, of course, to be privy to our conversations. Should you feel the desire to have an opinion, feel free to judge its pertinence, and if you will, tickle the lion.”

  “Did you just say ‘tickle the lion’?”

  “My brother.”

  “Why...am I reminded of navigating a really complicated labyrinth every time you speak?” Josephine said in a tone that Maria couldn’t quite decide between being genuine or sarcastic.

  She did not respond. Instead, changed the subject. “Did you know that Alfred provides significant funding to the cabaret, still? I’m sure he doesn’t meet much with the witches, so it will do us well to represent the cabaret positively. It is possible, and potentially even certain, that my brother will speak or act in ways you will find dishonourable and unkindly, but you must not let your temper get the better of you.” Then, in a quieter voice, and as she heard the clacking of shoes descending the stairs, she said, “I might do well to consider mine.”

  “I shall conceal my fangs,” said Josephine.

  Alfred reached the bottom of the stairs, and upon seeing Maria, smiled. He was not so impressive a sight, but what Maria found was that he surrounded himself with things that were impressive, which created a myriad of illusions. He wore a flat-brimmed brown hat, the same colour as the rest of his drab attire, and did not remove this as he approached. His shoes continued to rap loudly against the floor, as though they were tap shoes. Maria actually checked that they were not, just to be sure. How she would have teased him about it.

  “Madame Lucien,” he said loudly. “Or should I forgo the name?”

  “Well, that is my name,” Maria responded, unimpressed. “And you?”

  “Baron of Carcassonne, as usual.” He held Maria and gave her a rough kiss on the cheek, before turning his attention towards Josephine. “Who is this?”

  “Josephine,” Josephine said. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to pretend around me; Maria has told me plenty. And I will definitely not call you Lucien.” She winked.

  Alfred grumbled, but did not say anything. Reaching into the folds of his large coat, he withdrew a cigar and a lighter, sticking the large thing in his mouth. “It is good that you came, Maria. It is a true mess. Follow me to the gardens, would you? I am in desperate need to be out of this building and take in some air.”

  #

  Maria and Josephine followed Alfred into the gardens behind the town hall. Alfred had lit his cigar and smoked it bountifully. Around them stretched verdant greenery dotted with stone sculptures and columns, every now and then a pond or a fountain. In the distance you could see the large walls of Carcassonne citadel, and between gaps in the obnoxious plants, there were the brick and stone sides of buildings, reminding them that this was far from nature.

  As they began their laps of the expansive gardens, Maria quickly found herself becoming more at-ease. “I can only imagine what I will discover in this god-forsaken city, Alfred, but the reality of it had better be worth my time.”

  “I wouldn’t have disturbed you so if it weren’t,” he responded, giving her a fleeting look as they continued side-by-side along a stone path. They weren’t entirely alone here, but anybody else present was too preoccupied in their own unending work to have the time nor the care to pay attention. “You read my letter, did you not? Did the things I spoke about not alarm you enough? Do you require more?”

  “More than our brother’s body being exhumed and the possibility of illegal witchcraft being performed?” Maria said. “By the way, pages of his books are on the black market.”

  “Uh, uh, uh!” Alfred said, checking to make sure nobody heard. “He wasn’t my brother, you senile old woman. Do you think anybody heard that?”

  “Oh, come off it,” Maria said, hitting his arm.

  “Very well, just keep your voice down about those things. If anybody knows I’m connected to that rabble—no offense—even the ants will not take me seriously.”

  “Can I ask, why is it such a big secret?” Josephine inquired.

  “He would claim that it is not politically-wise to be associated with Edgar Lucien,” said Maria before Alfred could interject with something more roundabout and confusing.

  “Oh Maria, it is good to see you after so long!” Alfred said in a thunderclap voice. The smile he feigned was deep and artificial. “It must be nearly a year since we last spoke like this.”

  “You mean, business? This is what this is, after all, business. My oldest brother would not invite me because he enjoys my company, would he?”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “There’s that word again.”

  “What word, you crazy person?”

  “Brother.”

  “And I’ll scream it out if you keep annoying me about it,” Maria said with widened eyes. “Anyway, where is this witch suspect you have imprisoned?”

  “In jail. I will, of course, arrange transport for you and Josephine in due time. However, a friendly conversation never hurt either?”

  Maria stopped where she was walking, her eyes catching something ridiculous. “Alfred, what on earth is this?” They had discovered a stone statue of moderate size amongst all the gardens—that is to say, much of the greenery had been carved away in order to accommodate it. The statue could have been sculpted based on Alfred’s appearance today, stoic and grumpy-looking. “Alfred,” she said, amazed. “You’re quite full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Alfred sighed as he looked up at the statue. “Oh, that...”

  “It’s not exactly brightening up the place.”

  “You know how it is, Maria, Baron of Carcassonne and all that. It’s storing here for a while, but they’ll put it somewhere more fitting, I hope.”

  “You store things in a warehouse,” Maria said.

  “That’s what I told them!” Alfred responded.

  “I actually like it,” said Josephine.

  “Well, I would take credit. You can ask Maria, of all the things I enjoy taking, credit is quite high, but I promise this had nothing to do with me. Now don’t quiz me on his name, but it was a sculptor of some sort commissioned by the arts committee. It provides culture, apparently.”

  Maria sighed. “Do you even have an arts committee?”

  “Actually, yes,” Alfred said in a surprised tone.

  They walked away from the statue.

  In Maria’s opinion, her oldest brother had inherited the same sense of grandeur and over-importance from their father that Edgar had, and the fact they’d made him Baron of Carcassonne simply served to bolster that. He was never a subtle man, nor would he ever let a trophy or accomplishment be merely half-stated. He enjoyed the spotlight, and while that could certainly be said for all three of the siblings, she felt that the degree to which Alfred enjoyed his spotlight was stronger than others. Or, she thought to herself, perhaps “stronger” is not the right word. More desperate. Like he’d been living under his younger brother’s shadow for too long.

  True, Alfred was smarter than Edgar, and to a degree even more so than Maria herself. He had gone to a prestigious university and studied hard. But Edgar had always been the more ambitious. Alfred was more political, duelling politicians and ministers up the government ladder; the others had bent the rules to get where they were.

  That was something that had always bothered Maria, how simply straight and plain Alfred was, like a butter knife in terms of the family of utensils. But she had to admit she was impressed he had reached such dazzling heights despite this.

  “I do enjoy my time here, Maria, though I know you doubt it,” Alfred said as they continued to walk through the gardens. “I always found Bellvoir as smelling of stale bread.”

  “I cannot leave Bellvoir, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Maria said. “There’s too much for me to do there. I’m afraid I’ll be there until the day I die, and even then, there will be more work left.”

  “Edgar is dead, Maria. You don’t need to continue cleaning up the mess he left over. Come to Carcassonne. It is much better here. They have my head as a statue.”

  Maria smirked but it threatened not in the least to become the sort of laughter the siblings once shared. “They will wonder why you’re spending so much time with a plain old woman like myself, perhaps start asking questions.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Alfred said. “In fact, they will sooner believe I am having an affair with you than they would that I am related—” He feigned a cough, looking around. “You know what I mean. A politician having an affair is not a major issue in Carcassonne.”

  “You sicken me,” Maria said as they came to a stop near their starting place. “Anyway, where is that witch? And, if I may ask, is there anything else you’ve dug up in the meantime? When I mentioned that I’d learned of our brother’s books being on the black market, you were not surprised.”

  “Well, I’ll let you find that out for yourself.”

  “So either it’s a waste of my time or something truly awful.”

  Alfred did not respond to this, and in fact seemed unable to look her in the eye. “Whatever. Anyway, I know I said otherwise, but perhaps to be on the safe side, I shouldn’t be seen with you for too long. I will arrange a transport for yourself and Josephine to visit where the woman is being held. Her name is Selika Montesquiou. Once you have all the information, we can talk about how we’re going to deal with it. If that suits you?”

  Maria sighed. “Selika Montesquiou. Very well.”

  “You don’t know her, do you?” Alfred asked.

  “I don’t know the witches in Carcassonne.”

  “Pity,” Alfred said, outwardly disappointed. “Benoit! Benoit!” He led Maria and Josephine from the gardens back into the town hall, where he drew the attention of a man who seemed unoccupied. “This is Maria, she’s from Bellvoir. I’d like you to arrange for her to be taken to the witch at the earliest time. As for myself, Maria, I have meetings to attend to, unfortunately. By the way, welcome to Carcassonne.” He turned on his squeaky heel, and tap-danced away.

  #

  Alfred had not been known by his family name since well before his brother died, only to those who had known him before. He felt that it could only negatively affect his political and social ambitions. To openly share the same bloodline as Edgar Lucien, that was not a good look. It was not that Edgar had spent much time in Carcassonne in particular, but he was well-known to be politically unhinged and problematic. The man had put a bad name on them all, that was it. He was surprised Maria still allowed herself it. But then again, he figured the morals of witches differed substantially to those of regular people.

  Well, that was to say, witches had none.

  Breaking in the tea room following his latest meeting, Alfred took slow and measured breaths and occasionally rubbed at his chest with the back of his knuckles, hoping for the pain to abate. His doctor said it was a congenital heart defect, one that perhaps had contributed to his father’s death many years prior. Of all the siblings, he thought for sure he’d be the first to see the other side, but Edgar had beaten him to it. This was just one of many ways Edgar had surprised him in his time.

  I really cannot wait to be through with this day, he thought to himself, watching and smiling as people swam about the room. Their conversation was minimal, little of it on any actual work, but rather the usual comings and goings that occurred in Carcassonne this time of year.

  Walking carefully through the tea room, he moved his hand from his chest and into the pocket of his coat. He took from a table a small chocolate-coated biscuit with his other hand. These biscuits were his favourite. Not too crumbly so as to cause a mess on the hall’s fresh carpet, but with enough crunch to make each bite highly satisfying. Ahead of him, the loud and opinionated Gaston, who was the newly-appointed junior minister of finance for the city, made as if to initiate conversation, but Alfred said he was in a rush and hurried away.

  He found that when he was not busy with meetings, he couldn’t help but think about his younger sister’s appearance in the city. Of course, he had known well in advance of her coming here—he’d invited her—and yet her arrival after such a long time did strike a strange nebulous blow to his wellbeing. Maria always had this way about her. The very nature of her presence in his city served as a reminder that all things lived in a precarious state, and could be toppled or changed at any instant. No matter how much he ran from it, things such as his name and history did not go away so simply. Stubborn, just like his siblings.

  His skin crawled at the thought of what the next few days might bring, let alone weeks, with that wretched witch being held at the jails. These matters (and he wondered why Maria persisted in them) he preferred not to become entangled in. Nothing good came of witchcraft; surely his brother had been a good enough indicator of that.

  He was glad to finally run into his assistant, Clara. Clara was one of the brightest people Alfred knew in Carcassonne, not only bright of mind, but in personality too. No matter what tasks he threw at her, Clara’s smile and cheerful demeanour remained a constant. She knew what he wanted, and, to be honest, she knew what he needed. She also knew how to get these things for him. Sometimes, admittedly, Alfred did not even know how she accomplished some of these things, like acquiring for him a very peculiar snack he had tasted once before, or finding a pair of shoes previously suggested to be unavailable.

  Greeting her good day, she expertly excused him from the tea room and back through the corridors of the town hall. In the most efficient way possible, she began reminding him of last week’s meeting minutes ahead of his next appointment.

  Alfred was rather excited about this meeting. They had been negotiating the development of Carcassonne’s first printing press for several months. This would cause a significant revolution in the way news was circulated not only in Carcassonne, but the French countryside, where theirs would be the only printing press thus far established. It would provide Alfred with a high degree of control over information, the likes of which had never been seen before. They would be the first to present news by days—and this was not even taking into consideration the monetary gains to be had from printing quicker and in larger quantities. There were some amendments to the plan, which was fine, and then the only thing left to do was draw his signature and make it so.

  Clara reminded him of all this as they walked. Once arriving in the corridor outside Prosper Cary’s office, Clara gestured. “After you.”

  “Thank you,” Alfred said. “Why don’t you head back to my offices? You’ll find a stack of papers there that need following up on.”

  “Will we see you for lunch?” Clara asked.

  “Yes, no, maybe, no promises. We’ll see how my meeting with Mister Cary turns out, and then I’ll be there in good spirits, or I’ll be somewhere you can’t find me, sulking.”

  “Don’t forget, you have another meeting with Mister Coulon this afternoon.”

  “Oh, yes, that one will have to be rescheduled. I have an appointment then. I’m sure you can come up with the specifics.” He winked at her.

  “Sure, Al.” Clara wrote this down on the back of the paper containing the meeting minutes. “I won’t keep you from Mister Cary. Just remember, he already doesn’t like you much so keep your temper in check. And...that should be everything.”

  “I have a temper?” Alfred said with a smile.

  He went into the meeting already in moderate spirits, his chest pains abating.

  Prosper was not pleasant and Alfred didn’t make too much personal conversation, but the deal was important. Prosper passed a handful of documentation to Alfred. There were some changes, which had been outlined together on the second page. “The deal is positive,” Prosper assured him, while watching intently but with optimism. “Our investors are in row, all that’s left is to sign on our end and I think it will go through.” He began to smoke a fat cigar in front of him. “You’ve done well, Alfred, to get it this far.”

  There was, from Alfred’s point of view, no reason for the deal not to go through. Yes, there were still a number of hoops to jump through, but there was no sense that anybody was opposed to it. From most of their perspectives, nobody had the extreme desire to cause a fuss about things. Construction permits to build the printing press, the finances, these were all secured. The opportunity for jobs was high, albeit with the caveat that many would be out of work. Yet, things like these were inevitable; Alfred was simply doing it first.

  “So what do you think? You’ll sign it?” Prosper said.

  “I’m still reading. Usually I have my assistant do these things for me.”

  His eye was stuck on one amendment in the print.

  “Says here,” Alfred said as he held his index finger on the passage, “the Americans want restrictions placed on witches. Extensive ones.”

  Prosper craned his neck as if trying to see, pretending he hadn’t been aware of any such amendments made to the documents. “Ah, is that what it says? Oh, I do recall that. They’re not fond of particular aspects of our culture, and indeed...”

  “I don’t like witches, Prosper,” Alfred said.

  “Mhm. Well, I wouldn’t say you’re alone in saying that.”

  “However, to put that into law...it’s a different thing. Seems...unnecessary.”

  “Oh, come on, Alfred, you know that most people in Carcassonne share that point of view. Besides, they’re proposing laws against the practise of witchcraft, not exactly against witches themselves. You know America. There were anti-witch trials and the whole thing is a difficult conversation. America...it is not like here. But of course, we do have to partner with them to bring the equipment over to Carcassonne, it’s just our only option.”

  Alfred sighed. The Americans who were bringing a new innovation to the printing press to Europe (first and foremost to Carcassonne), did indeed come from far-off lands where witchcraft wasn’t, at least to Alfred’s knowledge, very prevalent. He supposed it was perfectly within reason for them to feel negatively towards it. Hell, it wasn’t much different to their own views here in France. And yet, Alfred knew that putting regulations—more specifically, bans—on the practice would inevitably foreshadow a long string of changes across Europe, result in some backlash; and, of course, there was the thing with his sister. But, with that in mind, there was no progress without sacrifice.

  By any means, he imagined he’d be able to deal with those things as they came. So he shrugged, signed the document and handed it back to Prosper. Eager to be out of there, he stood up from his chair and blew out a deep breath, preparing to leave.

  He thought about what his younger brother Edgar would have done. The fact that he thought this made him cringe. He threw it from mind and wondered why he should care about a dead person. Edgar had been ambitious, sure, but not exactly intelligent. His fate was evidence enough of that. Drew enemies, scorched alliances. Won deals, sure, but at what cost? So here Alfred was, in such a position Edgar never could have imagined finding himself. Soon, he would have the fastest and most efficient printing press in France, and he who controlled the news controlled everything.

  “This will go through this evening,” Prosper said. “As long as the Americans don’t back out on the deal, we should have construction beginning on a new printing press as early as in two months’ time.” He shot out his hand for Alfred to shake it. “This is an exciting time in our history, Alfred. New technologies such as this, and many more, believe me, will serve well to those who embrace them first.”

  Alfred shook on it, but was most unwilling to engage in lyrical waxing with the man. He left the meeting and spent some time walking the corridors, going from one place to the next, and only very occasionally stopping to think of his sister, and the trouble they were facing.

  In his opinion, it was probably for the best all this talk of witchcraft and dark magic was forgotten about sooner rather than later.