The Charlatan

16. Adding Insult to Injury

Clara stood outside the entrance to her flat. The whole corner of the building had been roped off for investigation, but the tape and debris had not been cleared up now that that was over. No one had been living across from Clara, but the two adjacent rooms looked to have been recently vacated. Clara wondered if it had been from annoyance or fear. Her front door was cracked open. The locking mechanism was visibly damaged – a remnant of at least one house search by the Veltie constabulary. Clara took a silent breath and lightly pushed the door ajar.

It was a mess.

The whole flat was in shambles. Whether that was the constabulary's or haphazard looters' doing, Clara did not know or care about. The once pristine floors were covered in muddy footprints, and most of Clara's belongings had been knocked over or apprehended, depending on their monetary value. Clara thought it quite stunning how a lie without substance could so spook the citizens of the Citadel, and so quickly upturn every facet of her living.

She stood in the center of the grand room, grand no longer by cause of its disruption by strangers. Her courier certification, which usually hung proudly on the most open wall, was missing. As she looked around more, Clara spotted empty places where items of note usually stood: the table showcasing wildflowers from the westernmost edges of Sierra, the dresser holding legal documents and expired invitations for restricted events, the back corner holding her safe. All of it had probably been transferred into evidence. After taking it all in, Clara grabbed some spare clothing, cans of non-perishables, a cloth bag, and supplies: parchment, ink, sponges, and rope. She couldn't find her knife or her keys. She dislodged a loose floorboard underneath her bed to retrieve a dusty pouch of emergency gold. Couriering was sometimes a dangerous business, and Clara had learned to keep backups behind backups, if only for her parents or, more recently, for Charlie. She packed everything in the middle of the floor and moved to close the front door of the flat as best she could with the lock broken before she hauled the sofa over in front of it.

That will keep them out, Clara thought, not really imagining any particular 'them' but feeling protective of her remaining possessions, and dignity, nonetheless.

The longer she stood and stared at her dishevelled lodgings – the broken plates and photo frames – the angrier Clara became. The fear and all-consuming anxiety of the past month had morphed into blind rage. She had been manipulated. Again.

She had trusted in the crown just as she had trusted her partner years ago. She had aimed high and fallen lower than she had ever even considered was a possibility. Her innocence, her self-confidence and sturdy internal life had been stolen from her and she had learned to be wary, to be careful, to be silent outside while her insides folded in on themselves until she couldn't breathe. Her spirit had been stolen, and she had built a polished mask to take its place. Now, the Charlatan had stolen her name, her reputation. Her capable image, her usefulness to her community, and the Clara she presented to the external world had been taken from her. Her insides had been in shambles long before this, but now Life was no longer satisfied with crushing her mind. It needed to rip apart her mask.

Clara threw a fist at the wall and let out a frustrated and confused cry.

All she had ever wanted was an assured peace to fill her community. She had wanted calm, swaddled by vibrant cityfolk and backdropped by a glowing golden sun. But that was foully absurd! The world is filled with liars and cheats, Clara, and you are naïve to think that anyone would help anyone else for the sake of doing good. Life could be a foul place, and Clara knew it well. She had wanted to see and know people, to learn from interesting doers, and to cross-stitch a network of happy and fulfilled friends who knew how to laugh, who could all swim in rivers of gold just deep enough to remain afloat. Now, as she crouched alone in the middle of her disordered flat, rocking back and forth between anger and woe and heels and toes, all she wanted was for everything, inside and outside her head, to silence. The fantasy that was calm peaceful colours backdropping friendly and inviting smiles was replaced by void.