Chapter Text
"I did not mean to be cruel. I swear, I am good. I am good, I am kind, I have love inside of me. Some place far, far away."
...
The kitchen cat was dead, and somehow that meant Morrigan and Rigel were to blame.
Neither of the twins knew how it had happened, but Rigel wasn't particularly pleased. He'd liked that cat, even though Cook complained that he was always jumping onto the counter, and the dead gardener complained that if he went to close to him while he was napping he started hissing at him. Not to mention if ever Rigel attempted to pick him up he would wrap his body around Rigel's arm and start biting and clawing, Rigel had never particularly minded though. If anything, he found it endearing. Viciously endearing.
Neither knew how it had happened, or when. Perhaps he'd eaten something poisonous overnight? There were no injuries to suggest a fox or dog attack. Apart from a bit of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, he looked like he was sleeping, but he was cold and stiff.
When they found his body in the weak winter morning light after a nice garden stroll, Morrigan crouched down beside him in the dirt, a frown creasing her forehead. She stroked his black pelt from the top of his head to the tip of his bushy tail.
"Sorry, kitchen cat," she murmured. Rigel frowned, crouching down to pull his eyelids shut, an unusually glum expression on the typically guarded boy's features.
The twins had debated where best to bury him, before Rigel settled on his napping spot in the garden, the place he always liked to rest under the half dead willow tree, purring and hissing in a (cruel but funny) attempt to startle the birds. Morrigan had suggested that they ask Grandmother for some nice linen, but Rigel had dismissed it, insisting he chould be wrapped in Rigel's old quilt, the one he used to curl up on and claw at softly while cuddled up to him. A decision, Morrigan was most angry at him for and had completely forbidden him, it was after all one of the last tethers the twins had to their deceased mother, something that Rigel himself was bitter about.
Their father had never liked either of the twins, but he always seemed to hate Rigel a little more. At least Morrigan knew their mother's name, their father had forbidden her to tell him. Rigel hated their father bitterly, he found him cruel and uncaring and oh-so-cold-hearted, which was ridiculous—because for somebody so closed off he had this intense loathing for people he found lacking in empathy.
Still, he settled for wrapping him in one of his finer scarves and humming to him softly—it was the closest he would ever get to singing any more, he'd always had a good singing voice, Morrigan wasn't particularly affected by it, but one time a neighbour girl had been walking down the road and heard him singing, she'd gotten caught in a right daze and for the next three weeks Rigel would receive terribly written poems and sonnets and plea's for him to sing to her just once more.
They'd definitely made him prouder of his own poetry.
Then the parents had gotten mad, accused Rigel of placing a hex on her, and demanded compensation form their father. Now, his father had forbidden him from singing, Ivy's idea. He hated her for it, he hated her for a lot of things really.
Especially the result of said ban.
Morrigan had begged him to sing again, just one more time. She missed his voice, not in the way others did, in the way a sister who felt sorrowful for her brother did. After the ban had... well, he'd grown to resent singing and shoved it deep down into the darkest parts of him, with those broken, bleeding pieces of that within him that he hadn't quite managed to cut out. Those last bits of that weeping, broken child inside him he could never quite erase.
Cook opened the back door to give yesterday's scraps to the dogs and was so startled by the twins' presence, she nearly dropped her bucket. The old woman peered down at the dead cat and set her mouth in a line.
"Better his woe than mine, praise be to the Divine," she muttered, knocking on the wooden doorframe and kissing the pendant she wore around her neck. She glanced sideways at Morrigan and Rigel. "I liked that cat."
"No, you didn't," Rigel narrowed his eyes sharply, as he spoke in his usual emotionless tone," The only thing you liked about that cat was insulting it and kicking him in the side."
"So did I," said Morrigan, elbowing her brother to shut up. He was going to get beat by their father again at this rate.
"Oh yes, I can see that." There was a bitter note in her voice, and Morrigan noticed she was backing away, inch by wary inch. She'd be angry, or indignant (like how Rigel looked) but honestly, she was too busy being relieved the cook had opted to ignore Rigel's snarky retort. "Go on now, inside. They're waiting for you in his office."
Morrigan hurried into the house, hovering for a moment near the door from the kitchen to the hallway. She watched Cook take a piece of chalk and write KICHIN CAT—DEAD on the blackboard, at the end of a long list that most recently included SPOYLED FISH, OLD TOM'S HEART ATACK, FLOODS IN NORTH PROSPER, and GRAVY STAYNES ON BEST TABELCLOTH.
Rigel scoffed, giving a bitter whisper to Morrigan," No wonder she works for the help," he whispered disdainfully," She can't even spell properly."
Morrigan bit back a giggle, funny as it was to listen to her brother mock the old coot, it wasn't funny to listen to him be pompous and rude," You sound like Ivy."
"Take that back." He sneered, furious.
"You're right, I'm sorry," Morrigan held up her arms in surrender," You sound like our father."
Rigel's expression faltered, lips parting in horror, hurt and terror for a moment looking torn between anger and tears. Finally, he schooled his expression, lips curling into a snarl.
"I'm nothing like him," Rigel snapped, storming off. Morrigan winced, maybe she'd gone a little too far? He really hated their father. Still, she had to keep him in line somehow. She didn't want him to end up a spoiled brat.
...
"I can recommend several excellent child psychologists in the Greater Jackalfax area."
The new caseworker hadn't touched her tea and biscuits. She'd travelled two and a half hours from the capital by rail that morning and walked from the train station to Crow Manor in a wretched drizzle. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, her coat soaked through. Morrigan was struggling to think of a better remedy for this misery than tea and biscuits, but the woman seemed almost as uninterested in her food as Rigel—who was still giving his sister the silent treatment—was in interacting with any body in this room.
"I didn't make the tea," said Morrigan. "If that's what you're worried about."
Rigel gave a small scoff, turning his body impossibly farther away from her and rolling his eyes. Not everything revolved around them. Morrigan responded with her own eye roll, her brother was as petty and petulant as ever, she resolved to have cook make some custard tarts later. Maybe then he'd stop being such a twat.
He was always rather hostile and defensive, but he'd been in a right form since the cat had died. He wasn't usually this angry, rather just... numb to the world around him.
The woman ignored her. "Dr. Fielding is famous for his work with cursed children. I'm sure you've heard of him. Dr. Llewellyn is also highly regarded, if you like a gentler, more maternal approach."
Rigel scoffed once more, this time audibly so. Their father shot him a scathing glare, clearly a message to get his act together. Rigel rolled his eyes, and her father's hand twitched like he wanted to backhand him right there. Morrigan didn't think that would be a good idea, Rigel tolerated a lot from their father, but he'd been real grumpy recently. He wouldn't fight a beating, but he'd definitely get some creative and humiliating revenge on the man if he tried anything at the moment. His glare worsened, Rigel responded with a withering, hateful look Morrigan had only seen on his face twice times in their entire life. She swallowed glancing away in discomfort.
Morrigan's father cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That won't be necessary."
Corvus had developed a subtle twitch in his left eye—the same one Rigel got, which he hated Morrigan acknowledging because he hated anything about him that even remotely resembled their father, which, unfortunately for him, was a lot, hence why he stuck to styling his features so differently from the man—that appeared only during these mandatory monthly meetings, which signalled to the twins that he hated them as much as they did. Arguably one of the only things Rigel had in common with the man that he didn't try to fight.
"Morrigan has no need of counselling," he continued. "She's a sensible enough child. She is well acquainted with her situation. And Rigel will be fine too, they have each other. That's all they need."
Rigel scoffed at the way their father added him, like an afterthought. Then again, he supposed he was an afterthought.
(He'd always been an afterthought.)
Were it coming from any one else, Rigel would find the words endearing, a point of pride—he and Morrigan were scarcely aware of each other's emotional state, Morrigan having grown tired of Rigel's defensive attitude and Rigel resentful towards her for a multitude of (admittedly unfair) reasons, so having somebody view their bond as one of fondness inspired a bittersweet nostalgia in the boy.
But coming from his father they just seemed callous and dismissive. Rigel swallowed thickly, their father's words were uncaring as ever. Once more, Rigel was an afterthought. Whatever leftover anger he had at Morrigan was overcome by a fresh wave of resentment towards their father as he locked eyes with his twin, the pair traded eye rolls.
Morrigan was pleased to note the ghost of a smile that flickered across his expression before he snuffed it down.
The caseworker chanced a fleeting look at Morrigan, who was sitting beside her on the sofa and trying not to fidget. These visits always dragged. "Chancellor, without wishing to be indelicate... time is short. Experts all agree we're entering the final year of this Age. The final year before Eventide." Rigel's jaw clenched, he swallowed thickly as he glanced at the window, as he usually did when the E-word was mentioned, and he was subsequently reminded of their impending death. "You must realize this is an important transitional period for—"
"Have you the list?" Corvus said, with a hint of impatience. He looked pointedly at the clock on his office wall.
"Of—of course." She drew a piece of paper from her folder, trembling only slightly. Rigel rolled his eyes, how utterly pathetic.
The woman was doing rather well, Morrigan thought, considering this was just her second visit. The last caseworker barely spoke above a whisper and would have considered it an invitation to disaster to sit on the same piece of furniture as either of the twins, let alone between them. "Shall I read it aloud? It's quite short this month—well done, Mister and Miss Crow," she said stiffly.
Rigel rolled his eyes once more—he hadn't actually done anything to be congratulated for.
"We'll start with the incidents requiring compensation: The Jackalfax Town Council has requested seven hundred kred for damage to a gazebo during a hailstorm."
"I thought we'd agreed that extreme weather events could no longer be reliably attributed to my children," said Corvus. "After that forest fire in Ulf turned out to be arson. Remember?"
"Yes, Chancellor. However, there's a witness who has indicated that Morrigan is at fault in this case."
"Who?" Corvus demanded.
"A man who works at the post office overheard Miss Crow remarking to her grandmother on the fine weather Jackalfax had been enjoying." The caseworker looked at her notes. "The hail began four hours later."
Corvus sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, shooting an irritated look at Morrigan. "Very well. Continue."
Rigel frowned. In their entire life, neither had ever remarked on "the fine weather Jackalfax had been enjoying." He did remember Morrigan turning to Grandmother in the post office that day and saying, "Hot, isn't it?", to which he had responded "Sweltering." but that was hardly the same thing.
"A local man, Thomas Bratchett, died of a heart attack recently. He was—"
"Our gardener, I know," Corvus interrupted. "Terrible shame. The hydrangeas have suffered. Morrigan, Rigel, what did you do to the old man?"
"Nothing."
Corvus looked sceptical. "Nothing? Nothing at all?"
She thought for a moment. "I told him the flower beds looked nice."
"When?"
"About a year ago."
"Rigel?"
"I placed a hex on him a week ago," The boy responded drily," Terrible shame I got caught."
Morrigan stifled a giggle at their father's eye twitch worsened. She sobered, Rigel was going to be in so much trouble once their case worker left, she'd best make sure his first aid kit was ready. She wasn't particularly good at helping treat his wounds, but he was usually able to manage them himself—dismissing her in some stupidly noble effort to protect her innocence or whatever—and on the off chance he couldn't, he guided her through the process with a foreign sort of gentleness that she rarely glimpsed from him any more.
Corvus and the caseworker exchanged a look. The woman sighed quietly. "His family is being extremely generous in the matter. They ask only that you pay his funeral expenses, put his grandchildren through college, and make a donation to his favourite charity."
"How many grandchildren?"
"Five."
"Tell them I'll pay for two. Continue."
"The headmaster at Jackalfax—ah!" The woman jumped as Morrigan leaned forward to take a cookie, but seemed to calm down when she realized there was no intention to make physical contact. "Um... yes. The headmaster at Jackalfax Preparatory School has finally sent us a bill for the fire damage. Two thousand kred ought to cover it."
"It said in the newspaper that the lunch lady left the stove burner on overnight," said Morrigan.
"Correct," said the caseworker, her eyes fixed firmly on the paper in front of her. "It also said she'd passed Crow Manor the previous day and spotted you on the grounds."
"So?"
"She said Rigel made eye contact with her."
"I did not." The boy squawked indignantly," I was bedridden at the time! Ask Morrigan, I spent the next day complaining to her that I missed out on my daily stroll."
Morrigan felt her blood begin to rise. That fire wasn't her brother's fault. Neither ever made eye contact with any one; The knew the rules, plus, eye contact made Rigel uncomfortable, he tried his best to avoid it. The lunch lady was fibbing to get herself out of trouble.
"It's all in the police report."
"She's a liar." Morrigan turned to her father, but he refused to meet her gaze. Did he really believe he was to blame? The lunch lady admitted she'd left the stove burner turned on! The unfairness of it made Morrigan's stomach twist into knots. "She's lying, Rigel never—"
"That's quite enough from you," Corvus snapped. Morrigan slumped down in her chair, folding her arms tight across her chest. Her father cleared his throat again and nodded at the woman. "You may forward me the bill. Please, finish the list. I have a full day of meetings ahead. Rigel, you and I will discuss this once the caseworker leaves."
Rigel swallowed thickly, dread sinking in the pit of his stomach.
"Th-that's all on the financial side of things," she said, tracing a line down the page with a trembling finger. "There are only three apology letters for the twins to write this month. One to a local woman, Mrs. Calpurnia Malouf, for her broken hip—"
"Far too old to be ice-skating," Morrigan muttered.
"—one to the Jackalfax Jam Society for a ruined batch of marmalade, and one to a boy named Pip Gilchrest, who lost the Great Wolfacre State Spelling Championship last week."
Morrigan's eyes doubled in size. "All I did was wish him luck!"
"Precisely, Miss Crow," the caseworker said as she handed the list over to Corvus. "You should have known better. Chancellor, I understand you're on the hunt for another new tutor?"
"He should've known better than to spell Treacle with a K." Rigel drawled, choosing now to reach for a cookie and 'accidentally' brushing the caseworker's arm. She screamed, Rigel smirked cruelly.
Corvus sighed, a hand darting up to rub the crease between his brows. "My assistants have spoken to every agency in Jackalfax and some as far as the capital. It would seem our great state is in the throes of a severe private tuition drought." He raised one dubious eyebrow.
"What happened to Miss..." The caseworker consulted her notes. "Linford, was it? Last time we spoke you said she was working out nicely."
"Feeble woman," Corvus said with a sneer. "She barely lasted a week. Just left one afternoon and never returned, nobody knows why."
That wasn't true. The twins knew why.
Miss Linford's fear of the curse prevented her from actually sharing the same room with her students. It was a strange and undignified thing, Rigel felt, to have someone shout Grommish verb conjugations at you from the other side of a door. His sister had grown more and more annoyed until finally she'd stuck a broken pen through the keyhole, put her mouth over the end of it, and blown black ink all over Miss Linford's face.
She had later admitted to him that it wasn't her most sporting moment.
Following that, taking inspiration from his older sister's prank Rigel had attacked her form behind on the way to the restroom, wrapped her in a curtain, blindfolded her, tied her to chair—still blindfolded—and set up a fan in front of her face before telling her she was on one of his fathers commandeered helicopters, he'd spent the following hours rocking the chair back and forth tauntingly while debating the merits of pushing her out aloud and asking her how high they would have to "fly" for the fall to kill her.
After hours of listening to her screaming in a sound proof room, he'd finally dragged Morrigan to check out his work with a proud smile, clearly seeking her approval, but instead was met with a scandalised expression and insistence that he release her right this instant! to which he'd pouted and responded that if she was going to hit him with a ruler, he was going to traumatise her.
Though, he had eventually relented to Morrigan and released her, still blind-folded, in the woods behind the manor, but no longer tied up. The woman had left two days later, looking severely traumatised and jumping any time she heard the sound of a fan, and Morrigan hadn't spoken to him for a week until he'd huffed and laid down his pride, writing her an (incredibly rude, sarcastic and obviously insincere) apology letter.
Both twins had silently agreed not to tell their father about that particular stunt.
"At the Registry Office we have a short list of teachers who are amenable to working with cursed children. A very short list," said the caseworker with a shrug, "but perhaps there will be someone who—"
Corvus held up a hand to stop her. "I see no need."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You said yourself, it's not long until Eventide."
"Yes, but... it's still a year away—"
"Nonetheless. Waste of time and money at this stage, isn't it?"
Morrigan glanced up, feeling an unpleasant jolt at her father's words. Even the caseworker looked surprised. "With respect, Chancellor—the Registry Office for Cursed Children doesn't consider it a waste. We believe education is an important part of every childhood."
Corvus narrowed his eyes. "Yet paying for an education seems rather pointless when these childhood's are about to be cut short. Personally I think we should never have bothered in the first place. I'd be better off sending my hunting dogs to school; they've got a longer life expectancy and are much more useful to me."
Rigel's glare faltered and he stared at their father in shock, his lips parted and he looked heartbreakingly broken for a moment as tears welled in his eyes, before he swallowed the burning feeling in the back of his throat back, a cruel glare setting onto is face as he clenched his fists, anger burning through his veins.
He scoffed at himself, it made no sense to be so ridiculously angry. It was the truth. The truth that he, Morrigan and every cursed child knew deep in their bones, they were going to die long before adulthood.
"I'm sure my friends in the Wintersea Party would agree with me," Corvus continued, glaring at the caseworker, oblivious to Rigel's own fury and Morrigan's unease. "Particularly the ones who control the funding of your little department."
There was a long silence. The caseworker looked sideways at both twins and began to gather her belongings. Rigel recognised the flash of pity that crossed the woman's face, and he hated her for it.
Rigel's jaw set in anger and silent fury.
"Very well. I will inform the ROCC of your decision. Good day, Chancellor. Miss Crow." The caseworker hurried out of the office without a backward glance. Corvus pressed a buzzer on the desk and called for his assistants.
Rigel rose from his chair quietly, trying not to tremble. His hands tremored, but his handsalways tremored.
"Don't even think about it." Corvus snapped," Wait."
Out of the corner of his eye, Rigel noticed Morrigan rising from her chair angrily, clearly looking ready to shout at their father, and he gave the slightest shake of his head. The fight seemed to melt off her body and her voice came out trembling and timid. "Should I...?"
"Do as you like," Corvus snapped, shuffling through the papers on his desk. "Just don't bother us."
The twins swallowed thickly, and Rigel looked up at Morrigan, shaking his head silently. She swallowed and glanced away, before turning and exiting the room.
...
Dear Mrs. Malouf,
We'd like to extend our sincerest apologies that we broke your hip. We didn't mean to. We hope you are recovering quickly. Please accept our apologies and get well soon.
Yours sincerely,
Miss Morrigan Crow and Master Rigel Crow
Sprawled on the floor of the second sitting room, Morrigan rewrote the letter neatly on a fresh sheet of paper, mimicking her brother's handwriting on the final line, and tucked it into an envelope but didn't seal it. Partly because Corvus would want to check the letter before it was sent, and partly on the off chance that her saliva had the power to cause sudden death or bankruptcy.
Her mind wondered back to Rigel over and over, she hoped he was okay. It had been over an hour, but her father had been furious when she'd left. Her hands trembled and she glanced down at them, it was an odd thing, Rigel had been caned and smacked on his hands often enough that he had somewhat of a permanent tremble, always there, some days worse than the others. When it was particularly bad or painful, Morrigan's own hands tended to shake, even if she was nowhere near him.
A part of her was thankful for it, annoying (and saddening) as it was, it at least let her know he was alive. She worried sometimes, when he was with their father too long. Worried that eventide would have no effect on him, because well...
She cut that train of thought off.
The click-clack of hurried footsteps in the hallway made Morrigan freeze. She looked at the clock on the wall. Midday. It could be Grandmother, home from morning tea with her friends. Or her stepmother, Ivy, looking for someone to blame for a scratch on the silverware or a tear in the drapes. Or it could be Rigel. The second sitting room was usually a good place to hide; it was the glummest room in the house, with hardly any sunshine. Nobody liked it except for Morrigan. Even Rigel found it hopelessly depressing, he claimed the "vibe was draining", but unlike the others he spent time there anyway.
Morrigan had never been able to pry the reason why from him.
The door knob twisted, and she tensed as it opened to reveal her brother holding a cool compress to his eyes and limping slightly as he hunched.. Morrigan let out the breath she'd been holding and gestures to the first aid kit open in the corner. Reaching over to the radio, she turned the little brass knob to lower the volume before she walked over to her brother.
Bile coated the back of her throat as she noticed blood all along the back of his shirt, he winced and carefully lowered himself to the chaise and she was grateful she'd thought to put a towel down. Blood was dripping down his back, all over the chaise. He looked terrible.
"What do I—" Morrigan throat burned," Uh..."
Rigel, thankfully took pity on his twin and he guided her though the steps of cleaning the wound—Morrigan would've whacked him for the admittedly impressive string of curses that slipped form his mouth but she was far too concerned for him and to be honest they were all rather valid and accurate—disinfecting it, and wrapping it up. Anger boiled under her skin at the sight of the bleeding belt marks and she scowled, that was both going to bruise and scab.
She offered to treat his other wounds quietly but he shook his head, glaring at the wall bitterly as he bit back sobs of pain. Morrigan hoped her father drowned in a ditch.
The two sat in tense silence for a moment, neither willing to speak, but Rigel was the one to break it," Morrigan?"
She glanced up, and he swallowed hesitantly," What was... What was our Mother's name?"
Morrigan faltered," I—I'm not supposed to tell you that."
He glanced at her disbelievingly," Father's not he—"
"And what if he finds out?" She snapped," Rigel, I'm not allowed to."
"But—"
"Enough!" She snapped loudly," Drop it. Do not bring it up again, Rigel. I'm not allowed to tell you. You need to stop, okay? You need to not think of her, not mention her, no more trying to sneak glances into the portrait room. And No. More. Asking. This recurring conversation had recurred for the final time, I'd advise you to stop contemplating the topic completely, because you will never receive an answer from me. Clear?"
Terror gripped her, she wasn't just worried what their father would do to her if she told him, he'd never hit her and a small part of her did dread that one day he would, but she was also worried what would happen to Rigel.
He glared at her, nostrils flaring in anger. For a moment it seemed like he wanted to say something scathing or cruel, but he seemed to change his mind," Fine," He rose with a wince, storming out of the room," Coward."
Morrigan glanced up at the door, which had been left wide open. She sighed as she closed it before settling on the ground with a blank piece of paper to begin writing the next letter.
...
Rigel scowled bitterly, trying to ignore the pain shooting through his body as he stormed through the manor and up to his bedroom. Who did Morrigan think she was? It was their mother, not just hers. She had no right to keep her from him.
He huffed, he knew Morrigan was scared of their father, he couldn't fault her that. But... he really wanted his mother's identity, Morrigan had seen her portrait, knew her name, even had something that had belonged to her.
All he had was a quilt she'd bought him a week before he was born when she found out they were twins and not just one child and access to a trust fund their father hadn't touched since their mother had died and had likely forgotten had even been set up for them. He traced the patterning on said quilt as he lowered himself onto his bed, trying not to cringe as the painful wounds on his back pressed against the mattress.
Rigel knew it was irrational, but he couldn't help but hate the women for abandoning them. It was stupid, he knew, she was dead, and it wasn't like she'd chosen that. He killed her, something his father never failed to remind him.
He hated them both for being cursed children, but Morrigan was older. She had survived birthing Morrigan, it was Rigel that had killed her. He didn't just hate their mother, he hated their father too, and he hated Morrigan for refusing to tell him their mother's name, hated their grandmother for never standing up to her son for him, hated Ivy for pretending to love them. But honestly... he hated himself most of all.
There'd been a time he almost ran away, he'd stolen the card to his trust fund—something his father never actually touched and still hadn't noticed he never returned—packed his bags and almost left. But, he'd been halfway to the rail station, every step filling him with the guilty thoughts of leaving Morrigan behind before he'd turned back and stayed. He'd always hated himself for staying, but he probably would've hated himself eternally if he'd left his twin sister behind.
He sighed, rolling over (and wincing, and then cringing, and then whimpering, his eye must look horrendous because that bruise hurt and he would definitely be using colour corrector and makeup on it tomorrow) to the radio on his bedside table and turning the dial up until he found a station he liked. He hated far too many people. He hated himself for that too.
"The annual winter dragon cull continues in the northwest corner of Great Wolfacre this week, with over forty rogue reptiles targeted by the Dangerous Wildlife Eradication Force. The DWEF has received increased reports of dragon encounters near Deepdown Falls Resort and Spa, a popular holiday destination for..." Oh, joy. Killing more innocent creatures simply for the terrible crime of existing.
There were now people on the news talking about the homes they'd lost in the Prosper floods, crying over pets and loved ones they'd seen washed away when the streets ran like rivers. Rigel felt a stab of sadness and hoped Corvus was right about the weather not being her fault. He scowled and rolled over, stuffing that feeling down and squashing it with anger and indignation at their caseworker who had dared attempt to blame them.
Anger was better than grief. Better than guilt. Better than tears.
"Up next: Could Eventide be closer than we think?" asked the newscaster. Rigel faltered, eyes flying open as he shot up, pain shot down his body and he gasped shakily and whimpered in agony, tears springing in his eyes as he breathed heavily. What were they talking about? "While most experts agree we've one more year until the current Age ends, a small number of fringe chronologists believe we could be celebrating the night of Eventide much sooner than that. Have they cracked it, or are they just crackpots?" A tiny chill crept along the back of Rigel's neck, anxiety and fear clawing at his chest, were they going to die soon?
"But first: More unrest in the capital today as rumours of an imminent Wunder shortage continue to spread," the nasal newscaster continued. "A spokesperson for Squall Industries publicly addressed concerns at a press conference this morning."
A man's voice spoke softly over the background hum of murmuring journalists. "There is no crisis at Squall Industries. Rumours of an energy shortage in the Republic are entirely false, I cannot stress that enough."
"Speak up!" someone yelled in the background.
The man raised his voice a little. "The Republic is as full of Wunder as it ever has been, and we continue to reap the rewards of this abundant natural resource."
"Mr. Jones," a reporter called out, "will you respond to the reports of mass power outages and malfunctioning Wundrous technology in the states of Southlight and Far East Sang? Is Ezra Squall aware of these problems? Will he emerge from his reclusive lifestyle to address the problem publicly?"
Mr. Jones cleared his throat. "Again, these are no more than silly rumors and fearmongering. Our state-of-the-art monitoring systems show no Wunder scarcity and no malfunction of Wundrous devices. The national rail network is operating perfectly, as are the power grid and the Wundrous Healthcare Service. As for Mr. Squall, he is well aware that as the nation's sole provider of Wunder and its by-products, Squall Industries has a great responsibility. We are as committed as ever—"
"Mr. Jones, there's been speculation as to whether the Wunder shortages could have anything to do with cursed children. Can you comment?"
Rigel rolled over, propping himself up on an arm as he stared at the radio, giving it his full undivided attention.
"I—I'm not sure... I'm not sure what you mean," stammered Mr. Jones, sounding taken aback.
The reporter continued. "Well, Southlight and Far East Sang between them have three cursed children listed on their state registers—unlike the state of Prosper, which has no cursed children at present and has remained untouched by Wunder shortages. Great Wolfacre also has two registered cursed children, the twin son and daughter of prominent politician Corvus Crow; will it be the next state hit by this crisis?"
"Once again, there is no crisis—"
"Oh for stars sake!" Rigel spat," Once again, something goes wrong and it's all our fault. Naturally."
He scowled, turning the volume down before inhaling deeply and pulling out a journal with trembling hands. Sighing he lowered himself gently to his desk, releasing a whimpering sob as several of his wounds pulled painfully. He inhaled shakily, tears of pain prickling his eyes. Ahh, Paternal Love.
He scowled as he flicked open to his list—several members of the staff had been acting odd the last few months, and he had kept an eye on the suspicious individuals, at one point he'd caught sight of a ginger hair on Cook's apron, which she had dismissed as one of the maids, only they had no ginger maids.
Thus, he had pulled aside one of the more confident and respectful maids—a somewhat respectful individual who, despite never speaking up, he'd heard scoff under her breath several times when he'd eavesdropped on the help trading stories about the cursed children evil deeds. And on one occasion she'd caught him sneaking into the first aid stuff to top up his kit, rather than snitch, she'd taken it from him and shot him a pitiful(?) glare. The following morning he found the completely full medical kit on his desk.
He'd never heard anything from his father or cook about it, so despite the gossip sessions about the cursed children, she'd never mentioned it. He sneered at the reminder—they were the help. They had no business judging him.
Still, the maid, Mary, had been instructed to inform him if she noted anything odd among the staff. And when she'd received an anonymous note instructing her to meet under the old willow tree and give information on the Crow Twin's for two hundred kred, she'd immediately come to him. He'd given her a general script for how to respond to certain questions and informed her to attend, he would spy form afar. He'd made it very clear that she was to keep redirecting questions to him, whoever this stranger was, they didn't need to know a thing about Morrigan. What they needed was a warning not to interfere in Crow familial affairs.
Thus, he had plans for tonight. Big one's. With a smirk he jotted down one more name on the list, smug to note his hand writing was getting neater, even with his shaking hands.
He paused and flicked the page over, stopping to admire the gorgeous emerald green gown he had sketched out onto the paper. His trembling hands traced the outline of the design longingly, his father had made it clear he wasn't to see anymore, and even if he wanted to, the man's ensured he couldn't. His eyes burned, he would never be able to sew again, not with his hands like this, he'd take hours just to thread a needle and months to finish the project. Something wet tickled down his cheek. Surely, he'd be caught if he tried.
A tear landed on the page.
...
Morrigan and Rigel's father was the chancellor of Great Wolfacre, the largest of four states that made up the Wintersea Republic. He was ever-so-busy and important, and usually still working even on the rare occasions when he was home for dinner. On his left and right would sit Left and Right, his ever-present assistants. Corvus was always firing his assistants and hiring new ones, so he'd given up learning their real names. And if Corvus did like one (or both) of his assistant, Rigel took great pleasure in driving them away in the cruellest, most creative way possible. If there was one thing the vindictive, rage-filled boy enjoyed, it was making life difficult for his odious father, it was arguably his favourite past time.
And he'd taken more pride in it in recent years since his father had forbidden his singing, taking one of his only joys in his grievously short life away.
"Send a memo to General Wilson, Right," he was saying when the twins sat at the table that evening. Morrigan sat across form their stepmother, Ivy, and way down at the other end of the table was Grandmother. Rigel took a seat somewhere half-way between their grandmother and Ivy, avoiding people as was typical of him. Nobody glanced twice at either of them. "His office will need to submit a budget for the new field hospital by early spring at the latest."
"Yes, Chancellor," said Right, holding up blue fabric samples. "And for the new upholstery in your office?"
"The cerulean, I think. Talk to my wife about it. She's the expert on that sort of thing, aren't you, darling?"
Ivy smiled radiantly. "The periwinkle, dearest," she said with a tinkling, breezy laugh. "To match your eyes."
Rigel caught Morrigan's eyes and rolled his eyes, wrinkling his nose. The twins' stepmother didn't look like she belonged at Crow Manor. Her spun-gold hair and sun-kissed skin (a souvenir from the summer she'd just spent "destressifying" on the glorious beaches of southeast Prosper—what the pampered little princess had to stress about, Rigel didn't know. Maybe it was the fact she thought destressifying was even a word?—were out of place among the midnight-black hair and pale, sickly complexions of the Crow family. Crows never tanned. Rigel had tried all he could to harass her and drive her away since the day he met her, hating her even more than most. Everything about her screamed that it didn't belong anywhere near the Crow Estate, especially not as a part of their family.
Except the wretchedly positive woman had stuck around like a stubborn little bug, always slipping past his attempts to squash her spirit. Eventually, his father had hired a bodyguard for her and Rigel had finally given up. She was, most unfortunately, here to stay.
Morrigan thought perhaps that was why her father liked Ivy so much. She was nothing like the rest of them. Sitting in their dreary dining room, Ivy looked like an exotic artwork he'd brought back from a vacation. Rigel hated her. Had mentioned that already? Because he really, really hated her.
He'd tolerated her at the start, but then the wretched woman had said something about his hair which he'd been attempting to grow out to half-way down his neck, and when he'd refused to let her cut it, it had all been mysteriously shaved off in his sleep. The next morning, he'd picked the lock of his room, grabbed a picture of ivy and a pair of scissors, and stabbed the picture onto the door directly through her face. Needless to say, the woman returned his hatred.
"Left, any word from Camp 16 on the measles outbreak?"
"Contained, sir, but they're still experiencing power outages."
"How often?"
"Once a week, sometimes twice. There's discontent in the border towns."
"In Great Wolfacre? Are you certain?"
"Nothing like the rioting in Southlight's slums, sir. Just low-level panic."
"And they think it's due to Wunder scarcity? Nonsense. We're not having any problems here. Crow Manor has never functioned more smoothly. Look at those lights—bright as day. Our generators must be full to the brim."
"Yes, sir," said Left, looking uncomfortable. "That... hasn't gone unnoticed by the public."
"Oh, whine, whine, whine," croaked a voice from the opposite end of the table. Grandmother was dressed formally for dinner as usual, in a long black dress with jewels around her neck and on her fingers. Her coarse, steel-gray hair was piled in a formidable bun atop her head. "I don't believe there is a Wunder shortage. Just freeloaders who haven't paid their energy bills. I wouldn't blame that Ezra Squall if he cut them off." She sliced her steak into tiny, bloody pieces as she spoke.
"Clear tomorrow's schedule," Corvus told his assistants. "I'll pay the border towns a visit, do a bit of hand-shaking. That should shut them up."
Grandmother gave a mean little laugh. "It's their heads that need shaking. You have a spine, Corvus—why don't you use it?"
Rigel smirked, he hated everybody in this wretched house, aside form Morrigan, but his grandmother? Oh, he adored that woman's evil little soul.
Corvus's face turned sour. The twins tried not to smile. On more than one occasion, Rigel had heard a maid whisper that Grandmother was a savage old bird of prey dressed up as a lady she'd been fired, but she hadn't been wrong. He (and Morrigan) privately agreed but, only family was allowed to torment family, still, the twins found they rather enjoyed the savagery when it wasn't aimed at them.
"It's—it's Bid Day tomorrow, sir," said Left. "You're expected to make a speech for the local eligible children."
"Good lord, you're right." Actually, that was left—truly father you ought to show your employees more respect, they see more than they say—but nevertheless, continue," What a nuisance. I don't suppose I can cancel again this year. Where and when?"
"Town Hall. Midday," said Right. "Children from St. Christopher's School, Mary Henwright Academy, and Jackalfax Prep will attend."
"Fine." Corvus sighed unhappily. "But call the Chronicle. Make sure they have someone covering it."
Morrigan swallowed her food before speaking. "What's Bid Day?"
As often happened when either twin spoke, everyone turned to face Morrigan with vague looks of surprise, as though she had just magically appeared. Rigel frowned, the disrespect was heinously unseemly and horrifically undignified.
There was a moment of silence, and then—
"Perhaps we could invite the charity schools to Town Hall," Their father continued as though nobody had spoken. "Good publicity, doing things for the underclass."
Grandmother groaned. "Corvus, for goodness' sake, you only need one idiot child to pose for a photo, and you'll have hundreds to choose from. Just pick the most photogenic one, shake its hand, and leave. There's no need to complicate things."
"Hmm," he said, nodding. "Quite right, Mother. Pass the salt, would you, Left?"
Right cleared his throat timidly. "Actually, sir... perhaps it's not such a bad idea to include the less privileged schools. It might get us a front page."
"Your approval rating in the backwoods could do with a boost," added Left as he scuttled down the table to fetch the salt.
"No need to be delicate, Left." Corvus lifted an eyebrow and glanced sideways at his daughter. "My approval rating everywhere could do with a boost."
Rigel smirked, if there was one thing he adored, it was making their wretched father's life difficult. Morrigan shifted guiltily in her seat and he rolled his eyes. The twins were both well aware their father's major challenge in life was trying to maintain his grip on the affections of Great Wolfacre's voting public while his only children brought about their every misfortune. That he was enjoying his fifth year as state chancellor despite such a handicap was a daily miracle to Corvus Crow, and the question of whether he could sustain this implausible luck for another year was a daily anxiety.
Something Rigel adored triggering.
"But Mother's right, let's not overcrowd the event," he continued. "Find another way to get me a front page."
"Is it an auction?" asked Morrigan. Rigel shot her a shut up look, his hands trembled harshly and his stomach knotted in mounting anxiety. It was never a good thing to be noticed.
"Auction?" Corvus snapped. "What the devil are you talking about?"
"Bid Day."
"Oh, for goodness' sake." He made a noise of impatience and turned back to his papers. "Ivy. Explain."
"Bid Day," began Ivy, drawing herself up importantly—Rigel cringed, that dress was hideous, he made a mental note to commandeer it form her closet and burn it, "is the day when children who've completed preparatory school will receive their educational bid, should they be lucky enough."
"Or rich enough," added Grandmother.
"Yes," Ivy continued, looking mildly put out by the interruption—Rigel smirked, he ought to dye the Harlot's hair, she was forgetting her place. Thinking herself far more important than she was. Somebody ought to remind her," If they're very bright, or talented, or if their parents are wealthy enough to bribe someone, then some respectable person from a fine scholarly institution will come to bid on them."
"Does everyone get a bid?" Morrigan asked.
"Heavens, no!" Ivy laughed, glancing at the maid—Mary, Rigel shot her the slighted tilt of his head a curled his lips up tightly in approval—who'd come to place a tureen of gravy on the table. She added in an exaggerated whisper, "If everyone were educated, where would servants come from?"
That was it, Rigel was going to dye her hair the most hideous, unflattering, sickly chartreuse colour he could permanently. The help were his to torment, and Mary specifically was off limits to anybody.
"But that's not fair," Morrigan protested, frowning as she watched the maid scurry from the room, red-faced. "And I don't understand. What are they bidding for?"
"For the privilege of overseeing the child's education," Corvus interrupted impatiently, waving a hand in front of his face as though trying to brush the conversation away. "The glory of shaping the young minds of tomorrow, and so on. Stop asking questions, it's nothing to do with you. Left, what time is my meeting with the chairman of the farming commission on Thursday?"
"Three o'clock, sir."
"Can we come?"
Rigel and Corvus blinked repeatedly, a frown deepening the lines in their forehead's as identical expressions crossed their features in unison.
"Why would you want to attend my meeting with the chairman of—" In what world would Rigel want anything to do with something as disgustingly grotesque and undignified as farming? If Morrigan wanted to go, sure, but there was no need to drag him into it.
"To Bid Day, I mean. Tomorrow. The ceremony at Town Hall."
"You two?" her stepmother said. "Go to a Bid Day ceremony? Whatever for?"
Well, now Rigel wanted to go. But, he wasn't going to stake anything on this until he had something to gain of it.
"I just—" Morrigan faltered. "Well, it is our birthday this week. It could be our birthday present." Her family continued to stare blankly, which confirmed Morrigan's suspicions—something Rigel had already known—that they'd forgotten the twins were turning eleven the day after tomorrow. "I thought it might be fun..." She trailed off, looking down at her plate and dearly wishing she hadn't opened her mouth at all.
"It's not fun," sneered Corvus. "It's politics. And no, you may not. Out of the question. Ridiculous idea."
Morrigan sank down in her chair, feeling deflated and foolish. Really, what had she expected? Corvus was right; it was a ridiculous idea.
The Crows ate their dinner in tense silence for several minutes, until—
"Actually, sir," said Right in a tentative voice. Corvus's cutlery clattered onto his plate. He fixed his assistant with a menacing stare. Rigel raised a brow, interesting.
"What?"
"W-well... if you were—and I'm not saying you should, but if you were—to take your daughter along, it might help to, er, soften your image. To a degree."
Left wrung his hands and Rigel couldn't help the unimpressed look that flittered across his face. What spineless little worms. "Sir, I think Right is... um, right." Corvus glowered, and Left rushed on nervously, unaware that the little respect Rigel had for him was rapidly diminishing by the second."Wh-what I mean is, according to polls, the people of Great Wolfacre see you as a bit... er, remote."
"Aloof," interjected Right.
"It couldn't hurt your approval rating to remind them that you're about to become a... a g-grieving father. From a journalistic point of view, it might give the event a unique, er, point of interest."
"How unique?"
"Front-page unique."
Corvus was silent. His left eye twitched and Rigel lounged back in his chair. It seemed they were going to bid day, he sighed. Regretfully, he would have to wait to meet this mysterious ginger stranger poking around in his business.
If he was going be—eugh—socialising, he would need his beauty sleep.