Elva Rackthorn and the Tears of Azrael

The Tears of Azrael, Part 1

On the far side of Mother's suite, distant enough from the bedroom to not disturb Mother if she were sleeping, was a small table surrounded by low chairs and a settee. It wasn't often that they took tea there, but by a large set of bay windows, it made a lovely spot for entertaining, if one could ignore the grim reality of the Institute that crept across its pristine walls like swelling afternoon shadows.

While Father set out to fetch a tea service, Elva set Henri up with her sketchbook, suggesting he draw a picture of Reggie. Henri's art was worse than his handwriting, somehow, so giving him a subject beforehand was the only way Elva could identify his drawing when he finished.

The baroness stood at the patio doors, staring out at the grounds with the perfect patience of a statue until Elva drifted into her range. She turned slightly to look at Elva, her smile with the same bright-not-soft quality of the midday light.

"Apologies if I'm overstepping," the Baroness opened, "but I can't recall who you're apprenticed with."

Elva's fingers splayed out, and she occupied herself with examining her hands, as if they had suddenly cramped."I'm not. Not apprenticed."

The baroness's body stayed perfectly still, but her face was plenty expressive— a raised eyebrow, surprised-curiosity played across her face as clear as any follow up question.

Elva carefully stilled her fingers, clasped them primly together. "My father doesn't want me studying necromancy. He thinks it's dangerous."

"There's no more danger in our field than any other."

Elva looked over at her mother's bedroom door, then back to the Baroness.

"Your mother was very, very unlucky. Most people who are injured in our field are injured because they are careless or because they are unintelligent. Are you either of those things?"

"No."

"Of course not." The baroness paused, inclined her head slightly. "I remember you, barely ten, and already with pristine runework and careful, consistent rune breaks. To not have you in our field would be a loss."

That's when Father returned, with tea, sider, and an assortment of small pastries on a tray. Habit had Elva helping him set the small table, but it also helped keep her fingers from bunching into her skirt or her face showing pure longing to the Baroness.

The conversation quickly fell into adult inanities— the baroness was here with her cousin visiting an old tenant, yes, crops had been good this year, such a temperate season, no, she didn't think the situation in the Reaches would escalate, not so soon after, well, the last war. Elva sipped at her tea, longing for the energizing sour-sweet hit of sider even though she knew it would only worsen the fizziness in her blood. The longer her father and the baroness chatted about inanities, the more unbearable the sound of their talking, their sipping, their dainty chewing of small sandwiches became. Each scratch of the pencil against paper from Henri beside her felt like sandpaper against the skin of her arms, and each sip of tea just seemed to parch her throat even further. The baroness didn't seem to be wearing any jewelry, but Elva kept catching flashes of light when she looked at her, and that was setting off a headache behind her eyes.

She was also trying really hard not to think about the small red bag in one pocket, the letter stuffed in the other. If she didn't think about it, then it couldn't be a problem. Father wouldn't notice her noticing them and ask her to pull them out, chastise her for hiding them, realize they were from Mother and important and Elva could not fail to keep them safe so soon.

All her not-thinking was making Elva dizzy, even though she was sitting very still. So when her father asked, "Does that sound amenable to you, Elva?" she hadn't the foggiest what he had asked.

Elva stared at her tea cup, trying to divine the answer in its dregs. "Yes. Of course."

Her father's stern glare was easier to translate.

"Thank you," she tossed out as well.

"Of course, dear." The baroness smiled, a precise and calculated movement. "I'm certain we'll have a lovely time traveling to Glimrick together. Will you studying necromancy in the capital?"

Elva froze, tea halfway to her lips.

"Elva isn't interested in necromancy," her father cut in.

"Oh?" The baroness smiled. "Some other field in sigilmancy then. Mechanics, aetherium, or perhaps even alchemy?"

Elva kept quiet.

"No," Silas said again. "No such dangerous fields. Her interests are far more in line with a proper young noble's."

"Ah." The baroness turned her glittering eyes to Elva. "Tell me, dear, what does interest you."

Elva let her eyes roam around the room, over Father's too-still face. "Architecture," she finally said.

"Truly?"

"Indeed. I just can't get enough of it." Elva swept a hand about, aiming for a lazy gesture but producing something jerky instead. "Roofs. Walls."

"Buttresses," Henri suggested.

"Buttresses—" Elva looked at her brother. "Buttresses?"

"Buttresses," he confirmed, with a wide grin. "Butt...resses." He devolved into giggles, which made the tightly-curled tension in Elva escape into shoulder-shaking wheezing. She raised a hand to her mouth, but couldn't stop from giggling alongside Henri, the look of disapproval on Father's face was just further fuel. The baroness kept her face neutral, but there was a twitch about her eyes Elva thought she was right to read as amusement.

"You said your cousin was around. Might I visit with him before we set out? My children appear to be overtired. It's always exhausting, you know, the traveling here."

"Certainly, Silas." The Baroness moved with precision, but not precisely grace as she stood.

Elva moved with definitely neither as she tried to stand with jittery limbs and the desire to both keep attention away from her pockets and also make sure nothing fell out of them. Still, her grip was steady if a little too firm when she shook hands with the Baroness. It was too soon to be sure, but it felt, almost, as if she had made in her quest to study and master sigilmancy — not a friend, but perhaps an ally. Yes. An ally.

Her hope must have shown through, because as the Baroness shook Elva's hand she grinned, an uneven and unpracticed quirk of the lips.